Dance with Fire
by Aircraft-With-Attitude
Summary: When a Prototype V-22 Osprey is found wounded in the throes of a raging wildfire, a sinister plot begins to unravel. A comradery of unlikely heroes from every facet of life will be forced to ally alongside each other in a battle for their homes, families and even... their very minds.
1. Kindling the Flames

**Disclaimer: all references and characters from the movie belong to Disney, the American Helicopter Museum & Education Center hasn't gone bankrupt, some dictation within has been "learned" via other RPers/head cannons, and this story may/may not 'shift' without warning as more research and character building is conducted in the future.**

This story is a joint writing mission between DeviantArt's daQUIET-1 and Fanfiction's Garnets-and-Dragons; modified from an on-going, multiple character roleplay, that is evolving with every post. Even we don't know it's outcome. To quote; "It's a mysterious mystery."

We welcome you to journey with us as our characters adapt and overcome unexpected challenges and cheese. Especially the cheese. A lot of coffee and napping and ice cream went into this, thus constructive criticism welcome. Any flame will be swiftly put out in ways that would honor those that serve without question.

Thank you and enjoy … our feature presentation!

 **Edit: Chapter One has been split into Chapter One and Chapter Two, so all subsequent chapters have been bumped up in number.**

* * *

"Hello?"

The remaining tendrils of vapor vanished into the thick fog surrounding her, the only clue that she was still breathing and conscious. How long had she followed this road? It couldn't be that far from the highway ..right?

Distracting her panic by sniffing the asphalt beneath her own tires, the lonely V-22 continued on, keeping her wings tucked above and blades secure at her sides. Whatever damage encored from the fall yesterday was definitely felt today, even as she tried to unfurl again only to receive a harsh metallic whine that said something was broken and to cease further action immediately. Could be the auto-fold system, since she did sort of land square on her back and took in the most water from there. Chrysler it hurt up there though.

Another four hours of rolling along the roadway saw the morning mist vaporize as the rising sun gained in strength. Though most of her instruments weren't reading correctly, the intensity of the solar warmth along Nova's panels told of a promising scorcher by noon. Joy. Upon noticing the parched looking conifers surrounding the roadway, rain seemed to be lacking in the area as well. Double joy. On cue, past news reports of the wildfires of California jogged her memory, prompting her to take no further chances on the sidelines and continue her taxi near the yellow line. Though her engines weren't running, nor was anything online so as to spark a fire, heaven forbid she be the cause of one.

But someone else was...

A familiar acrid scent slammed into the intake valves around her snout, snapping her attention upward. Unable to see too much around her port engine, the stress induced panic once again reared its ugly head and took over her sensibilities, bidding her to take cover ..in the forest itself. Of course it was foolish, but day-old river water mixed with the remains of her fuel from a week ago, making any sort of cognitive thought impossible. Blindly, the Osprey crashed through the dead and dying brush, hitting nearly every log and gopher hole as she fought to escape. But it was no use. Once again her directions failed to lead her to safety, and as the smoke thickened, so did her confusion. There was no one out here. Hopes of reuniting with her friends from the museum will be turned to ash, along with her frame.

What a way to go…

Between her coughing fits and the constant crackle of branches exploding under intense heat, Nova almost missed it. But it was unmistakable. A pitch far out of the range of the low roar in the not-so-distant flames, and from above. Willing her weakened self to hold its breath, she exchanged lungs for auditory system detection.

And heard the clear whine of a jet's engine.

Unable to retrace her haphazard trail, the disoriented Osprey continued her plow with new intentions. Make herself seen. Surely the white of her livery was enough to catch the right eye if the sun would cooperate, but in order to do that, these blasted saplings had to go. And go they did for almost ten minutes, until a makeshift clearing of flattened saplings and yearlings circled her.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

By now, more craft were overhead, still veiled by the horrible smoke that continued its march in her direction. From what she could tell, at least two were heavy duty, one surely a Skycrane. Regardless of the Sikorsky's strength, one would definitely be hard pressed to lift even the emptiest V-22, not to mention carry her to safety. No, she'd have to do a lot of the work on her own ...again.

No one would know, until she made some noise.

Speech in general would help her least because her throat couldn't take the strain without throwing her to the dirt in a coughing fit. Nova would have to do the one thing she tried her hardest not to, just so she could pass as being civil. Well acting civil left as soon as her transport crashed. Out here, civil could take a hike.

If only she could unfold her wings and catch a proper glimpse of who she was trying to contact.

"MEDIC!" Nova cried out, hoping to be heard over the blade-like slice of metallic wings and high powered engines as the jet circled above her clearing. Although, she was fast for a turbine, jets always made her a bit jealous. Then again, what business did she have with that kind of speed to begin with? As she waited, the tiltrotor could only assist in determining the urgency of her situation, keeping one hazel eye on the fire while the other keyed in on the action above. Anytime the smoke thickened enough to blot out the sun, she kicked up her eerie shriek, just to let them know she was still in the same spot. Of course it didn't sound that way from above.

At last, the dull orange glow of merciless flames appeared at least a hundred yards beyond the treeline. Somehow, Nova managed to keep her head (whatever was left of it) and think through a way to bide her time. Taking note of the sudden downdraft that came from a powerful thrust system, she counted the minutes and the space provided in her little meadow. If her memory served correctly, the few vehicles capable of VTOL were at least 45 ft long and over; much bigger than what her clearing provided now. With this in mind, and hellbent on keeping it made up, she sought to remedy what could easily trap two aircraft in an unnecessary location.

One by one trees were felled by brute force, some tearing in half to leave jagged stumps while others toppled with roots intact. The Osprey was more than sure to have a good dent in her port engine for using it in place of a battering ram, but the appendage held fast. Hopefully, as the fallen pillars of wood lay towards the approaching flames, the inferno would stall and divert around the cleared space. But the effort cost her the remains of her fuel, forcing her to list onto her left side while gasping for air that was not available.

Running on vapors mixed with water; never a good combination.

 _\- Earlier -_

Beams of early morning sunshine had illuminated the inside of a small dusty, hanger; casting a warm glow over the sparse decor and even sparser utilities it contained and finally came to rest on a large, tan quilted blanket, rousing the hanger's owner from her slumber.

Epsilon Canis Majoris let out a long, tired yawn as she lifted her nose and cockpit out from under her comfy canopy. She drowsily glanced around the hanger, her normally eagle sharp eyes still glazed over and blurry as they struggled to take in the sudden bombardment of sensations.

The rest of her frame decided to join her mind in the waking world, slowly lifting off from her "nest". She yawned once more and stretched, making sure to flex and check every flap and all her instruments. Everything felt reasonably intact, so she decided that everything was in order. She quickly went through the rest of her morning routine, including touching up her paint. She had become so used to keeping a sharp appearance while in the Air Force that it was purely habit now.

Once she was satisfied that she had finished all she needed, the Raptor opened her hanger door with the sharp point of her nose and taxied to the main hanger. She paused on the taxiway and looked around the small base. It was still early, most of the team were still finishing up their routines. The few that had finished were already congregated at the main hangar, ready for breakfast and morning briefing. The sky held not a cloud in sight, a nice day if it hadn't shown signs of becoming disgustingly warm. Just what they needed. A heat wave this early in the season could spell disaster in big, flaming, red letters.

The Lockheed suddenly directed focus to scanning the forest edge, letting her predator instincts take over for the moment as ice blue eyes shifted from bush to bush, following signs of movement. A twig swayed suspiciously in the dappled light. She huffed and approached quietly, her massive 22 ton airframe was now held close to the ground and afterburners almost completely off. Eyes were kept locked on her target, all senses on high alert. She continued to creep closer until her head just barely crested the bush. The stalk had been successful, her quarry left completely unaware as she craned her neck and unveiled her target.

"If you want to sneak up on Cabbie, you'll have to quieter than that."

Her prey, in this case Drip, Blackout and Avalanche, all but leaped into the air, startled by her sudden appearance. "Hey!"

Cheekily, Epsilon grinned and turned away from the troublemakers, back on her way to the main hanger. Her tail flaps fluttered as she entered, ducking under Cabbie's wing and past Blade's tail rotors. There were only three others besides herself in the hangar at the moment; the massive Troop Transport, the bright red Agustawestland and the Sikorsky Skycrane. Her destination was the corner opposite of both entrances, a cozy corner where she could gaze about the whole room. There, she could wait quietly, finding little to add to the already established conversation. The smokejumpers were next to arrive, followed closely by the bubbly Dipper. Epsilon made a mental note look to keep an eye on her. Nothing good came from an over excited Dipper, only crazy pranks or endless fangirling. Patch followed soon after, only to slip out just as quickly with her ration of breakfast to squirrel away in the control tower. Finally, Maru made up the last soul inside, fashionably late for reasons best known only to him.

Everyone soon settled down with their fuel of choice as Blade began the morning safety briefing. About halfway through reports of fires in neighboring counties, the klaxon sounded. Breakfasts were abandoned as the team quickly made their way onto the runway. Dynamite and her team were loaded up into Cabbie's cargo hold, Blade and Dipper received their fire retardant, and Maru hooked Windlifter up to his tank before filling up Epsilon. The traditional Lockheed bombay had been cleverly modified hold slurry, with two large water balloon like vessels of retardant snugly wedged next to it. Useful in emergency precision "water bombing", which involved dousing smaller areas that desperately needed a soak.

Within moments the team was off and on their way to their first blaze of the day. Epsilon fired up and shot ahead, slowing down only after reaching a speed just below a normal cruise. She was the fastest by default, jet engines could out-pace rotors any day of the week.; making her fast enough to fly back to base and to restock. Unfortunately this had it's downsides. While ash was of little concern to her afterburners; her sensitive filtration system and high performance intake valves were particularly vulnerable to dust and ash particles. The slow speeds needed to fight fires were difficult to achieve without losing vital lift. Not to mention jet fuel was EXTREMELY flammable.

Upon closing in on the blaze, the F-22 flipped down the visor of her helmet and scanned the ground ahead. Billowing plumes of gray smoke towered just over the next ridge. She cranked up her speed and soared right over the ridge top, diving lower and keeping her eye on the the ground for hikers and campers.

"The fire's exactly where Patch said it would be," she radioed, only to miss Chief's response when she spotted what looked like ...a parked aircraft of some sort. Epsilon turned away momentarily to drop her load of retardant before falling into a wide loop, swooping lower with the second pass.

Wait… was that … an Osprey?!

Distracted by the unusual find, her mind immediately questioned all that she was seeing. What was a Bell-Boeing V-22 Osprey doing on the ground? In the middle of the woods? Flipping her iridescent visor away from her eyes, she hoped to get a better view.

"HEY! YOU ALRIGHT?" Epsilon yelled over the deafening roar of her afterburners. It was rhetorical, but there wasn't much else to ask. She considered the risk of landing, and weighed her options. It was unlikely Windlifter could lift the tiltrotor without help from the civilian's own engines, so she needed to know how bad the damage was. If they needed to call in a larger, stronger heli, it would take several hours. Also, should the downed aircraft turn up severely wounded, outrunning the blaze in the thick of a forest was tossed out the window of "immediate". Creating a back burn seemed to be the safest method of rescue. Such would keep the tiltrotor relatively sheltered until the fire could be contained and burn itself out.

Epsilon took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It was times likes these that being VLTO capable was the best advantage one to could have. Wobbling awkwardly as she began hovering closer and closer to the ground. Only after reaching a reasonable height, did the Raptor cut power and let gravity do the rest. It wasn't graceful, but it did the job. Shaking, she approached the tiltrotor, now able to clearly pick out wounds from roots.

"My name's Epsilon," She offered as she inspected the other aircraft. "We won't be able to airlift you out of here before the fire gets here, but I'm going to create a back burn to help you. Once the fire clears, we'll call for someone to lift you out of here and get you some medical care."

For an agonizing moment, the prototype could do little but focus on her breathing and stare at the F-22. No fighter jet christened with the name Lockheed, Martin, or Raptor, was built to take nonsense, modified or not. But how Epsilon ended up here, as a firefighter, was an enigma just as crazy as her own backstory. Something to share around the campfire later on. Using her afterburners she set a small fire to the trampled bushes, controlling the small blaze just enough to create a large patch of burnt ground, where the main fire would have no more fuel left to burn, creating a space of relative safety. Once satisfied with it's size, she used her tires to smother any remaining embers. "Can you get up? I need you to move into the dark patch."

"Yes," Nova croaked, finally regaining control of her waning consciousness to answer her rescuer. Though she wished to assist the fighter jet as she spoke of constructing said back burn, common sense knew it was best that she keep out of the way of professionals. Her interference ran as far as the trees she'd just leveled, and she was certain even that mess would turn into a hazard as the blaze continued it's prowl. The aircraft craned her head just enough to spot a stump within wings reach of where she lay, and a morbid idea formulated just as quickly.

This was going to be interesting.

Step one involved using her head to pivot closer to the tree's remains, having all but recoiled her near useless landing gear by now. Step two involved grit, for the auto-rotation unit buried in the center of her wingspan still shot nerves of pain clear to each engine, back, and down her vertical line. The tiltrotor had to bite back each agonizing wave of pain as she forced herself to unfold, pushing against the stump and righting herself.

The unnaturally quick recoil that followed emitted a sharp metallic crack, immediately answered by a yowl of pain. There was no time to cry about her injuries as Nova once again dug deep into her genetics, pushing past the hurt and settling square in the middle of the burn patch. Maybe now she can be allowed to loose her grip on reality.

Epsilon waited until the tiltrotor had made it to the patch of charred earth before clearing out more of the surrounding brush. Powerful jaws ripped low hanging branches from their places, hurtling them deep into the woods. The Raptor made sure to further secure the area with a sort of trench around the edge of the clearing, tilling the dirt until enough moist earth was exposed. Surely, Epsilon had been at this job for quite some time, throwing out everything but the red carpet to ensure Nova's safety. Once the latter was well enough to speak in complete sentences, she'd have to thank the firefighter properly.

Epsilon took a deep breath before moving to the center, knowing better than to get too close to the fire when her tanks still had fuel left in them. She settled down next to the Osprey and began digging up more dirt, mixing mud in with her remaining retardant.

"Once the flames surround us, put this on anything that might catch fire," she instructed, nudging some of the mud mixture in the tiltrotors direction before removing one of the large, water balloon like contraptions from her bombay. A last defense in case someone caught fire. "As long as you stay calm and don't move too much you should be fine."

"I ...h've ..no ..fuel ...save ...y'rself...," slurred the Osprey, teetering once again on the edges of consciousness. Jeeps she was getting sick to her tanks from this. Yes, it was the fighter's job to make sure both survived this onslaught, but what is the loss of the prototype's life compared to a fully functioning (and stable) F-22?

Epsilon started to growl quietly, putting on her very best 'Drill Sergeant' expression. She'd heard this "save yourself" nonsense way too many times in her still short life. If she hadn't given up on anyone before, she wasn't about to start now. Straightening on her landing gear, the Raptor held herself up as high as she could, "Alright. Listen up. You ARE NOT going to die, GOT THAT? I won't let you. You'll be fine."

The large fighter jet made sure to look her charge in the eye. Her stance between the tiltrotor and the firelight revealed silvery, glittering scars on her wings and fuselage as well as several along the seam of her vertical and horizontal stabilizers. She took the thick mud substance she'd created and began plastering it onto any exposed fuel lines. Anything that looked even remotely flammable got covered. ""We'll get you some fuel as soon as the fire dies out, for now it's still too dangerous. Now, I need you to keep talking. Talk about whatever you want, just keep talking. I can't have you passing out, it makes all our jobs a lot harder. So if you need me to, I'll splash retardant on your head."

The poor choice of words and Raptors' typical biting reply conjured an ill-timed grin to tear itself across the Osprey's muzzle. Good Land Rover she really was losing it; but the bravado was sourly missed, and the F-22 was the only one close enough to deliver such a speech while brandishing the right credentials. The tactic was clever, but unfair. In a court of law, however, she technically could plead insanity.

"Pardon ...my ..French..."

Nova found it interesting that, even though the fire's warmth was more than uncomfortable for at least an hour, only now did the caustic heat finally eat away at the oxygen layer closest to the forest floor. Of course it would happen, the downdrafts had to be horrendous to feed a blaze that refused to be tamed even by the skilled helitankers that continued to pace high above the forest canopy. Regardless of the danger, she felt the odd sense of peace that's often portrayed in movies before a character dies; mesmerized by the dancing tongues of fire. A beautiful display of elemental force, nearly as strong as lightning, water, and wind.

 _"You'se got more talent in one blade than most 'o us do in our whole bodies. Stop cuttin' youself short all the time..."_

Hilarious. Even in the final throws of her sanity, the wisdom of bygone friends still rang loud from the depths of her memories, goading her to fight on. For them, at least, she would sit tight just a little longer. In the meantime, her eyes could rest. All this ash floating about was really making them itch.

"What's today?" quizzed the tiltrotor suddenly, numbly obeying the command to keep talking despite how desperately her systems bid her to shut down. Moving around would help her most to stay alert, but, such a luxury was denied given the situation. Then again, the rudders in her tail dice voted otherwise as each panel took its turn to flap lazily in tune to each passing second.

"The 28th," Epsilon answered, slightly taken off guard by the sudden, unexpected question and taking a moment to remember the date. Of course she should have expected something loony, since she _was_ asked keep talking after all.

Watching the flames carefully, the Lockheed could see the fire rapidly burning up all of it's fuel and oxygen. It would be burnt out within the hour. Similar questions that burned deep within Epsilon's mind revolved around what really happened to the civilian that lead to their current predicament, but that could wait. First, she needed to start a long conversation. As long as she kept the Osprey talking, she stayed conscious. As long as she stayed consciousness, she stayed alive. That's all that mattered.

* * *

And thus ends the first chapter of Dance with Fire. We hope to see you all again with the release of future installments. Any questions will be answered to the best of our abilities.

Any reviews, comments or critiques are welcome. Cake is welcome too.

Again, we thank you for your time and hope to see you soon!

Sincerely,

The Quiet One and The Garnet Dragon

*no vehicles were maimed or killed in the making of this fanfic. Instead, they enjoy special effects and the writers' anguish.*


	2. Blaze of Glory

Worse than hungry snakes crawling across every surface, the creeping flames slowly advanced towards the two aircraft, flaring their hoods with eyes like embers. Destruction radiating from within and scorched everything it touched. This was the drawback to using the back-burn technique. A slow roast. Finally tearing her gaze away from the fire, Epsilon began to survey the clearing. Although not fully engulfed in flames, the young fighter jet could feel the heat against her frame. Uncomfortably warm, like standing too close to a campfire. Except this campfire was large enough to swallow a small town.

Suddenly, a flash of heat hit Epsilon's tail causing her to lurch forward. A burning branch had fallen from one of the nearby trees, much too close to the stranded aircraft. She inspected it for a moment before deciding the fastest way to get rid of it was to smother the flames. Using her nose gear to cover the branch in dirt, she wasted no time tossing it back into the blaze. Crisis averted.

"What are you doing out here? How did you get here?" She questioned, not even bothering to remove her eyes from the mesmerizing flames.

Even as the Raptor quizzed Nova further, her eyes slipped shut once again, but more deliberately as wondrous mounds of chilled cocoa infused dairy goodness appeared before her, her maw already attempting to drool over the mirage. If her memory served correctly, the 28th fell on a Wednesday, and such meant ice cream treats. Only she could think of food at a time like this.

 _Focus..._

"I'm ...from a museum... Nova...," the Osprey murmured, her speech still as delirious as her brain's ironic lack of hydration. "The storm made ...Phil crash ...and I ..landed ..wherever here ..is..."

Well curse her lazy brain and it's ability to make abridged versions of a novel that held valuable information. She could and couldn't blame herself for that though, since the pain and anxiety of being lost and injured in unfamiliar territory kept her systems on high alert for over 24hrs solid. Of course she was going to take short cuts. Whatever got her back to the safety of a warm, dry hangar, refueled and fed quicker. Curiosity drove her to watch Epsilon tend to the burning branch that fell behind them. Normally, such a position would be a red-zone blind spot for most aircraft because it required the larger body to conduct a sort of butterfly about-face in order to confront the intrusion head on. Not so much for V-22s, and she heralded something strangely revolutionary.

A mere ¼ inch shave in metallic thickness provided an extra five degree give in her 'neck', allowing her to increase visual range by 10-15%, and keep an eye on the action without turning her whole fuselage. The draw was how easily one could snap their head off if they landed wrong.

Still, the crazy ramblings continued. "It was pretty ...yesterday.."

Epsilon REALLY needed that airdrop from Cabbie. The large plane usually had a few fuel rations with him so that, on larger fires, such would be available to the smokejumpers. Dropping fuel into a dumping fire was dangerous, but right now she needed to stabilize the V-22. A little fuel could go a long way, and her charge was beginning to sound a few bolts short of a whole aircraft. Radio relay came in spurts as the situation was explained and coordinates were lined up. No mistakes allowed out here.

Epsilon watched as the massive Fairchild Boxcar turned high above them, just below the clouds. He quickly began spiraling downwards. A short, clipped warning came over her radio. He had some fuel set up for an airdrop. Not a lot, but enough. After a few tense moments, the cargo hatch opened and he banked hard to the left. Epsilon's sharp eyes caught sight of a black box tumbling from the sky, however, being so close to the ground, it hadn't time to deploy the parachute. All well and good since the darn thing would have only caught fire anyway.

Now, to make sure the box didn't knock anyone unconscious, because that would be just embarrassing.

Five seconds witnessed the rectangular package make contact by the edge of the clearing to the left, just outside the back burn. Thankfully, that small patch had almost all burnt through already, leaving the immediate area safe enough for her to bolt for the reinforced box. Ignoring the burning sensation around her landing gear, Epsilon hastily pulled it out of the fire and unfastened the clips, soon rummaging through and finding the fuel. Twenty-five measly gallons wasn't much, but it will have to do. Picking it up and opening it, she set it down by the tiltrotor's face. "Here. It's not much... but it will do for now."

An otherworldly glint in those hazel eyes announced the arrival of a personality that was best left dormant at all times. Though unable to properly examine the parcel of fuel before her, Nova knew exactly what it was even as she sniffed at it. Generic low-grade; the safe bet for all aircraft whether propeller or turbo powered. In the split second taken to chuff with recognition, the ration was engulfed, drained, and the casing ejected in a creepy display of precision.

Slowly, Nova's systems began to flicker back online.

"Chrysler ...what did you ask me earlier? I may have lost you at 'hello'," she admitted, glancing Epsilon over once again as her head cleared up. Conscious or not, every inch of her paneling hurt like heck from the number she'd put herself through. But she was alive, and becoming more aware by the nanosecond. The heli and plane halves of her genetics reformed, ready to think and act with or without direction. Still, she had to keep the eagerness to a discreet 1%.

"I take it you're feeling better?"

As the prototype finished the canister of fuel, Epsilon couldn't help but crack a wry smile, relieved that the Osprey looked healthier almost immediately. Rummaging through the box once more, she retrieved an IV bag and needle set-up containing standard medical quality oil. She picked up a sturdy branch and rammed it into the ground, but fumbled slightly while setting up the drip. Just because she'd helped Maru install a couple, didn't mean she was very efficient at it. "I hope you don't mind needles. I'm not necessarily a trained professional in the medical field."

Spying the stiffened posture of the Raptor just before it melted away, the V-22 mentally chuckled at her unofficial scare. Everyone called it her "Hangry" stage, and often gave her a wide berth before breakfast. A simple split awareness of the mind that convinces its owner to not believe what the body is doing.

"Yes ...sorry ..if I made a mess..." Nova provided, further humoring the fighter jet with an honest-to-goodness smile that said everything was going to be okay.

Upon producing the medicinal fuel and IV packages, the tiltrotor's inquisitive side returned with a vengeance; sniffing the bag despite the general lack of smell emanating from it. No, she wasn't afraid of needles, or most anything that would cause even the toughest Death Angel to balk. Odd, considering how much she was actually experimented on during her "childhood". Heli's were inherently curious, and the tiltrotor was certainly showcasing that personally trait well.

"That's fine. It can't be any worse than physical day back h- ..erm, at my old place," she encouraged, only stopping herself when the word 'home' didn't apply to the old museum location anymore. Though the situation could be best explained once a higher level of safety was reached, it seemed neither craft was bound to walk through the heated ash beds anytime soon. In response, Epsilon hummed quietly, watching the Osprey closely. She couldn't help but smile back; doing her very best to pay attention to what she was doing at the same time. It was a relief that needles weren't an issue. The last thing she wanted to do was tackle a needle fearing Osprey just give an IV.

"Don't worry about this mess. Mother nature will take care of it."

What Epsilon did that induced trust from the Osprey; was talk, aircraft to aircraft. Speaking of which, a question from the Lockheed echoed across the meadow-space: "How did you get out here and what in the world happened to you? You look like you picked a fight with a C-141 Starlifter."

"I think I mentioned that I came from a museum," Nova answered, now more capable of recounting information. "Back in Pennsylvania. Well, it's not a museum anymore and ...all of us that lived and worked there ..had to be relocated. The semi that was hauling me out to the new facility crashed on an overpass two days ago. You might have seen it on the news. I guess I fell into a river and rolled downstream because I should've been close to where Phil went over. Instead, I'm here ..."

To this day, Nova will still consider herself beyond callous for not mourning over the separation of her friends-turned-family, or the alleged death of a great semi truck.

The Lockheed knew a little about her kind, having worked in the US Air Force a few years before becoming a firefighter. She had spent a lot of time on her old base hanging around, without a mission, chatting with anyone willing to talk to her. Among those who put up with her shenanigans were Rick and Toby, the two twin Osprey's she'd befriended. They were an odd bunch, showing behavior from both fixed wing and rotary aircraft. She listened to the Osprey's tale quietly, nodding along as she worked. She felt bad for the other aircraft, crashing, even when starting off on the ground was never a good thing. Unless you were a tank... tanks had that strange habit of smashing into one another for fun... they were a strange bunch too.

"Museum, huh?" Epsilon repeated, finally getting the tube into the bag of oil, letting out a triumphant purr. She shook once, then gently, and carefully stuck the IV needle into the V-22's largest exposed fuel line. "You're way out of your element out here. I rarely listen to the news anymore, but our Fire Chief was called in to help emergency personnel shut down the highway for investigators. You're lucky to be alive, any farther north and you both could have taken an express trip over Whitewall Falls."

A comment about the falls danced on the tip of her tongue, but Nova grinned instead, deciding to hold off on the jokes as her paneling expanded half an inch to accommodate the new object. Given the fact that she'd wandered around in the thick of a conifer forest for 24 plus hours, she had to be in or near a national park. Heck, the route Phil was taking would have run right by several on the way to ... wherever her new home was. Apparently, she'd wished too hard to see one of the country's greatest wonders before being put away again.

"Thanks," whispered the tiltrotor, suddenly solemnized by the gravity of the situation. Phil was dead, she was miles from either home with none of her colleagues anywhere close enough to contact, and she couldn't fly. To make matters worse, no one would know she'd gone missing because the whole procedure regarding the transport was hush-hush. Why? Only the corporation that bought out her home knew, and they only wanted the lot as soon as they could usher everyone off. It was too soon to fight back, but all she needed was one chance...

Withering flames and dying smoke curls signaled the worst of the blaze had passed them. Or so it seemed. Nova was far beyond the control of her hull-shuddering snarls, suffocating under an anger that continued to burn hotter than its namesake. She was aware of it, but couldn't stop it, couldn't explain why she needed to rip something apart piece by piece. Dilated eyes hinted that she was indeed unfocused and out of her mind, at least for the moment. But how long a moment?

Who was going to get hurt ...this time?

Epsilon was about to start cleaning out the worst of the Osprey's wounds when she began to notice the subtle changes in her charges' behavior. Epsilon's own flaps began shifting and shuffling in a bird-like manner.. She could tell that the other aircraft was agitated.

Still, Epsilon continued her care, but with a sharper eye on her "patient". She held herself lower to the ground, protecting her underbelly, while monitoring the V-22's movements. The Raptor could fight back if provoked, despite being considerably more vulnerable on the ground. She didn't want to hurt the other aircraft, but she knew that it would be hard for her to take down the prototype without using her teeth in the event she attacked. After all, everything about her was designed to kill.

Three slow but deliberate clicks of teeth behind closed lips somehow managed to jar Nova's haywire free-fall back to sanity. The only trick once observed to work by another heli that was all but born cranky. A nice Ace to hold tight to when no more food was available to bribe.

Thank goodness none of the newer models had this sort of issue.

Exhausted and growing despondent again, Nova settled heavily on her landing gear, allowing the fighter jet to continue working on patching her up. Aside from a few seasons of bad hail storms, the tiltrotor's current injuries were the worst sustained in her 27 years of life. How sad was that? Seeing what may very well be her 'offspring' out on the front lines of SAR missions and the like, doing what decades of design and redesigns were meant for. Work. While all she could do was answer the 'demands' with 'supply' ..and sit there and look pretty.

 _'You are locking yourself up, child. Your eyes grow dark when you close off from the outside ..'_

Another sigh, softer this time, finally rescued her mind from the dark of frustrations past. Which is exactly what they were; past. Gone. Unable to change. Unless one becomes part of that history.

"Epsilon?" Nova ventured, realizing the danger she'd put an employee of the federal government in. Little could be said by way of an apology for her actions, because it was bound to flare up again. All that could be done to signal her return to sanity was to offer the chance to move forward.

"Yes?" answered the fighter jet, her voice a little softer this time around, a look of genuine concern on her face. It was obvious that the other aircraft was not in the most stable of mindsets. Epsilon backed away to get a better look at her new self-imposed friend, seeing something familiar in her eyes; a feeling she knew too well. However, now was not the time to dwell on it. Quickly digging through the box again, she found it hard to lift anything out; the box being small and her nose almost too big to fit. "Are you alright? Do you want me to see if we can get you something from base?"

"Wh-when can we leave?" Nova whispered, perhaps eager to depart their makeshift burn shelter, but behind the veil; remorse. Epsilon wasn't going to leave without her charge at her side, neither would she if the roles were switched. Instead, the tiltrotor was attempting to keep the ball rolling; her mind on track as events shifted to saving her life. She didn't just want to survive, she wanted to live.

Epsilon glanced at the Osprey, then at the fire, considering something before turning on her radio and striking up a short conversation over the radio. She smiled, closing the box before migrating back to the other aircraft's side. While inspecting her, she twitched, then shook. Her wings were tingling painfully, old wounds acting up after seeing the damage the other had sustained. "You'll be airlifted to our base in about half an hour. We'll get you medical assistance, hopefully from someone better than myself. How are you feeling?"

"Thank you. You still did well for an on-the-fly surgeon, ...pun aside," Nova praised, knowing things could have gone far worse than they did if the Raptor hadn't acted upon her intuition. Something else to be jealous over later; instincts, and whose were sharper. But she trusted Epsilon too much, considering all she had risked for a civilian aircraft. "That said, I'm well enough to maneuver anywhere deemed best for transport."

That twitching though...

Now it was the V-22's turn to play doctor; albeit a much milder version. Though her left engine still hung obnoxiously in front of her face, either view to the side was left clear enough to notice movement and changes in lighting. So it was only natural that she'd key in on the chanced ribbons of welding that were carefully tucked away in places designed to allow greater flexibility. Why? Time may tell. For the moment, however, two downed craft were any airlifter's worst nightmare; especially if one had to choose between their own and a civilian. "Does anyone massage your wing tips?"

"No…," Epsilon said, shaking her cockpit. Startled by the question, the gray Raptor tilted her head sideways, twitching minutely. Looking immediately uncomfortable once again, she lowered herself closer to the ground. A natural response, one that could be triggered by a variety of "threats". Unlike most civilian models, military models had a stronger sense of "fight" than flight, and often fell back on defensive postures, even when the threat was nothing more than question. And Epsilon hated it with a passion. "Why?"

The crash had been almost two years ago, but one that severely damaged her wings and stabilizers. Even to this day, her wings bothered her. Seeing other with similar injuries was often enough the bring the phantom pain back. But the haunt was lost in translation as Nova grinned gently at the hyper defensive reaction. "Because, pressure on your edges and especially the tips will cancel out the ache in your seams."

Silently, the V-22 chastised herself for being so nosy, no matter how well she had just put together a diagnosis with so minimal an observation. She was nowhere close to housing a title of the medical persuasion, even janitor, much less toss around cure-alls. Heck, who knows if it would even work on the fighter jet, since Ron's story only involved the much, much larger passenger airliners and commercial craft.

But it was worth a try, the sensors in her muzzle said so.

Epsilon tilted her head again as she thought, it made sense. Her mother would often massage her younger brother's back when his stabilizers had been sore after long days of flying. She decided to look into it. It seemed like it was worth a shot. She let another smile graced her lips, "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

Nova's own aches and pains were momentarily forgotten as a soft shine tentatively danced on hazel irises. Her first opportunity to help someone, yes, had to prove true and return with results, but for now, was received with favor. Okay fine, the tail rudders can join the celebration too. Quite suddenly, the Osprey became uncomfortably aware of a thick silence; minus the now destroyed inferno from earlier. The air attack team must have finished their sweep and returned to base. But to leave Epsilon behind? No, it wasn't the nature of the job, and it definitely wasn't the fighter jet's nature to deal with the ARFF solo.

"Do you think here is a good place for an airlift ..or should we move back to the road?" pondered the V-22 as she glanced about the size of her scorched meadow once again. The only easy way out was up, likely by chopper standards, which would kick up fresh ash and possibly embers that weren't completely dead yet, starting the whole firefight over again. The real question is, was her own landing gear able to handle a hike back with less than 29% functionality?

"We could try from here, but it might not work. I think a Chinook would create too much rotorwash. I can help you to the road though," Epsilon offered, stretching slightly and looking around as if searching for an answer to the tiltrotors question. "It will be a lot safer to lift you out there anyway. My team is making sure the rest of the fire is under control, and Cabbie will be heading to road anyway to pick up the smokejumpers."

Well that went on a lot easier than expected.

The following information, nearly matched what she'd first feared. So a Chinook would be honored with tackling her as payload. A respectable breed of helicopter specifically built for artillery transportation or resupply; even if her kind was designed to compete and/or replace said Chinooks. Both were heavy duty powerhouses that performed well at their jobs. The only difference being that Ospreys were faster by a few dozen miles per hour. Clearly, the tandem choppers would always have a niche in the aggressive world of aeronautics; the dead language of practicality.

"I think I can manage the return trip, now that it's somewhat burned clear," Nova answered, realizing her previously bulldozed trail to this spot had pretty much vaporized with the smoke. It may be a hot taxi back to the road, but at least she'd have an escort to help her weave around those pesky rocks this time.

With a curt nod, Epsilon focused on getting the Osprey to the road for extraction. She didn't like the idea of the tiltrotor sustaining any more damage when it could be avoided. A quick way to confirm navigation involved a treeline search for the granite cliff-face that housed PPAA's runway, which was easy to discern in the light of afternoon. "If you'd like, you can lean on my wing. I don't want you to hurt yourself more than you already have."

"Thanks. I'll be alright, but I'll stay close just in case," replied the tiltrotor as she gingerly rolled around to test her landing gear. It was the starboard wheel base that had been snapped somehow, a shock higher up in the carriage had popped out of its bearings which allowed the wheel to swivel as loosely as her nose gear. Although her turning speed had doubled, so did her chances of catching a rock or log wrong and sliding into a ditch. Something else these poor firefighters would have to waste their precious resources on.

Once again too aware of Epsilon's movements, Nova followed the jet's gaze into the distance to the best of her abilities. Aside from how marvelous the midday sun washed the landscape in picturesque clarity, she could see nothing overly exciting about one particular granite slab. She ventured a sniff, then two before the fine dust kicked up by their tires nearly conjured up a sneeze. The wind wasn't giving any hints either. Anticipation and nerves were soon at war within her. Would they tolerate her presence until a curator from the new museum sought her out? If not, where would she go from here? Should she try to find it herself?

Then another thought dawned on her. "Pardon me Epsilon, but aren't I still too big ..even for a Chinook?"

Epsilon tore her eyes away from the ledge and spared a glance for the tiltrotor. She wasn't sure if it would work, but no point in admitting it. After all, there was always a chance it would somehow become a success. "It'll work, trust me. He's a brute, even by Chinook standards."

Taxiing over to the skeleton treeline, she picked up the box and began making her way through the charred remains, weaving her way through the pillars of torched wood. Little clouds of ash wafted into the air as she drove, sticking to her coating of paint, settling into her air systems, earning a rough cough. She was struggling to keep the ash out of her systems, even flipping down her visor from her helmet. Definitely an annoyance. "Try to follow as closely as possible."

Another set of nods were gestured, immediately followed by the V-22 in question. With shallow breaths, Nova trailed her escort, making sure to mirror the other's tread marks. Eventually, however, the adrenaline earned from her fuel boost lost its grip, leaving the aircraft incredibly tired. Dropping out cold in the sling of a Chinook sounded absolutely wonderful right now. Not to mention several cool compresses and tall can of AeroShell ...since she knew she would be on the ground for quite awhile.

Eventually, Nova's mind ripped her focus away from the jet's carefully planned trail to wonder about her fellow helis. Heh, funny that a model of her stature was more likely to get along with fixed-wings simply because she (from first glance) looked like one ...with an exceptionally large set of propellers on those stubby wings. Such was explained as carefully as Apollo could upon seeing that all the tiltrotor's attempts to adjust with her colleagues at the museum failed. That is, until she was able to prove _why_ she was no less a helicopter than all the others.

Thankfully, she had that Ace tucked away too.

Meanwhile, Epsilon used her wings to push away any surviving branches, stopping every once in awhile to look back at the Osprey. She could tell that she was beginning to falter. Yet just ahead, was the sound of aircraft engines as a massive Fairchild C-119 Flying Boxcar soared overhead, preparing to land. Not even a minute later, Windlifter flew by high overhead. About fifty seconds after him, a large dual rotor Chinook. The main road was nearby.

"You're doing great, we have only a little farther to go," Epsilon smiled reassuringly, slowing down enough to nest a wing under her the tiltortor's, offering a steady scrutch. "Lean on me, I'll help you get the rest of the way."

Pride made Nova chuff at the Raptor in mild disdain, bent on surviving the mess she had gotten herself into (which wasn't true). Humility fought back and urged her to accept the offer of assistance, adamantly reminding her of the now squeaking and very broken starboard wheel that often lost purchase on the smoldering earth. Eventually, the wounded tiltrotor compromised and reluctantly leaned onto Epsilon's wing. Not enough to hurt, but hopefully enough to impress the idea that she too was serious about the F-22's battle wounds. Epsilon didn't seem bothered by the weight, but there was a slight sting of pain in her wings. A mutual withdrawal.

Nova's jaw popped at the apex of a yawn just in time to see the three larger vehicles become swallowed up by the canopy of trees above. In place of the Osprey's eyes, she used her auditory systems once again, able to recognize two while one was likely the Chinook transport. Blame 5% of the museum tenants that were practically ancestors of today's tandem choppers; of which Apollo would be proud. However, another sound re-awakened her snoozing brain and drew it off towards her left. Even as they rolled on, the eyes of a ragtag bunch of heavy duty ground vehicles watched the newcomer in awe. It seemed this was the earthbound half of Epsilon's team.

How quaint.


	3. Safer Grounds

The raptor made her way out from the burnt woods, pulling up beside the road.. Cabbie had already landed, while Windlifter was hovering next to the massive Chinook. Only when the entirety of her frame exited the brush, did she turn to glance at at the Smokejumpers, giving them a friendly smile, the edges of her lips curling up. "Hello."

"HELLO!"

"Heya Eppy! Long time no see!"

"Thank Chrysler you're alright..."

"Hehe yeah, only Piney would be worried. 'Lanche and I knew you had it.."

"BOSS BUT NOT THE BOSS!"

And so the reunions commenced, each as distinct as the vehicles they poured from. Glancing between them all, Nova discretely recorded persona to model number while the conversation devolved around her. Five smaller vehicles bore the colors of the flames (she assumed these to be the Smokejumpers) and had energy to match. The three larger aircraft loitered patiently; a massive Fairchild, the Sikorsky and finally the Chinook that joined them. From her shelter behind Epsilon, the tiltrotor's intakes on her nose worked hard to absorb the signature exhaust scents. It wasn't rude as long as she did so from a respectable distance.

Gawd her shocks hurt.

"Who's your friend, Eps?" Drip finally commented, forcing the V-22 back into the loop. Well slag. Of course the larger, stark white, helio/plane couldn't hide from prying eyes forever, but darn it all if being on the spot wasn't painful enough. Just like her first day back at the Educational Center, when no one knew her and everyone ...stared.

Nova …" she nodded to the Osprey, "will need an airlift." Speaking of which, the fighter jet moved away from the gathering bunch, intent on speaking with the large tandem chopper about that very thing.

"Oh no ..what happened?" Pinecone murmured more toward Nova than Epsilon, seemingly attempting to break through the tiltrotor's shell of social defenses ..a jump even for her. However, it usually worked.

"Um ..a number of things," Nova admitted quietly, barely catching herself mid-shrug before hurting the area in question. A mild wash of concern overcame her while the fighter jet tended to matters regarding her extraction. They spoke quietly for a few minutes, with the massive Chinook shifting his weight to glance over Epsilon's wings at the tiltrotor still at the opposite side of the road. Yes, she was going to be a hassle. No, she wasn't doing this on purpose.

"Dude, that's bummer. But don't worry, Maru can fix ya up in no time," Drip added, having become all too familiar with the end result of stunts gone wrong.

"Alright boys, let's go. Cabbie's waiting! You all can pester Eps and the civilian when we return to base."

The conversation was short-lived as team captain Dynamite ushered them towards their ride out, "Uncle" Cabbie.

Epsilon finally turned away from the Chinook, and taxied back to her V-22 charge. "See you all later then. Have Maru get his stuff ready, and some proper fuel, okay?" Another set of parting goodbyes were said (along with Avalanche's 'SEEYA') before the jump team filed neatly away inside the transport plane's cargo hold. Humored by the whole situation since she'd never seen so many heavy lifters comfortably crowded into one fixed wing, the corners of Nova's mouth twisted just enough to betray a smile; more so upon considering the Fairchild's "exhausted" face. Again, well placed interruptions continued to ensure a professional flow.

Dynamite chuckled softly, the new aircraft was going to have a lot of attention when they got back to base, giving Cabbie some peace and quiet.

A low rumbling noise prefixed the closing cargo hatch. There was a loud, low buzz as propellers started up and began turning the cargo plane towards the "runway". It would be tough, but he could do it, even with his old age. He powered up and began rolling forward, already eager for some rest.

The whole encounter left the prototype feeling like a freshman graced with the acknowledgment of several senior classmates. As long as she kept her head and a tight lid on her emotions, things would probably be okay. A tall order considering her last flying escapade. Deep breaths, Nova.

"Ready, Nova?" Epsilon asked, as the Chinook made his way next to her, holding the cargo straps in his powerful jaws.

"I am," Nova answered, gingerly sliding herself back far enough to allow the harness system to be adjusted properly. Funny that she would be able to fly, without actually flying once again. The Osprey could only half turn to address Epsilon and her tandem helio comrade, more because she couldn't see him well with her engine in her face. But what she could see was hard to miss. Scars similar in nature to the F-22's re-fabrication seams littered the Chinook's champagne hull, some less noticeable than others. Classic skepticism lay square on his face and 'no nonsense' emanated clearly from dark, pine green, hooded eyes. Surprisingly, however, the white tiltroter was unperturbed by the tough exterior, having all but grown up with fellow choppers of similar if not worse nature.

Epsilon and the Chinook began adding, adjusting and tightening straps. Epsilon made sure they were comfortable but wouldn't slip during flight. The male Chinook looked over their handiwork, making sure everything was in place before putting an extra cargo net around for safety. He wasn't quite as gentle as Epsilon was when adjusting the straps. Not on purpose though.

"Too tight?" He asked as he yanked a strap along her landing gear, making sure it wouldn't slip off.

"No they're not," grunted the V-22, faltering on her stance just as the tandem chopper adjusted another strap. Though she did her best to brace herself against his pulls, her rear wheels simply couldn't keep up and were always outdone by his seasoned grit. Now, though, confidence in his lifting capabilities had risen, even if the extra cargo net was added ...just in case. Besides, the discomfort endured among rescuers was far more tolerable than the tortures of solitude. If only that were the same for her curiosity and her monstrous desire to learn that it lived to feed.

"I'm ..not going to put you all out of resources too much ...am I?" Nova asked softly, wondering why a price tag suddenly loomed above all their efforts to save her. Of course taxes would cover this and 'Gotti knows how many other things in the months to come, but there was always that imaginary guilt that squirmed under her plating; _you did this_.

Epsilon smiled reassuringly before backing up a bit, "Don't worry, you're no problem."

"I'm going to need you to stay still,." Yukon advised the Osprey , as the tandem chopper moved to the middle of the road in order to take off without the straps tangling up. A quick inspection of his rotors made sure they were in order. "I also need you to stay calm. If you start swinging too much, you may accidentally hurt yourself more."

"Anything else you need before we get you out of here?" Epsilon asked once more, as the Chinook hooked up the last of the straps to himself.

"Yes sir," nodded the V-22, already familiar with the terms and conditions of playing 'cargo'. Anticipation grew with the idea of being up in the air again, where she was supposed to be 90% of the time. "And I don't think so Epsilon, thanks though ... for everything."

The raptor nodded with a smile, than turned down the road, lining up with the center line. She had to admit that she was worried for her new friend, but managed to convince herself that everything would be alright. It was just an airlift. She'd been airlifted before, though she didn't remember much, being unconscious and all that. Taking a deep breath, she focused and fired up her afterburners, taking off down the street. She was the air under a minute later, circling once before taking off into distance back home to base.

Mirroring the sincere smile, Nova couldn't ignore the glimmer of feeling welcomed. Those that accepted the oddness of the plane/helicopter hybrids were few and far in between, enough to be genuine if the situations proved favorable. She couldn't hope for too much out here, though. Epsilon and the others were simply working to save those that can't save themselves. As soon as repairs were completed, she and the team would continue their separate lives.

What her own future held ..she'd yet to find out.

Yukon looked around to make sure all was clear before firing up his two main rotors. Soon after, the impressive bulk of the CH-47 lifted from the heated asphalt, carefully rising skyward. The slack in the ropes unraveled than straightened, only to pause at their maximum length for more than a minute. She was heavy, but he'd carried worse. Slowly, the tethers tightened all the more around her fuselage, taking her gross weight off the half-functional landing gear. The Osprey quietly hoped for a short trip for the sake of the Chinook, no matter how burley his credentials. Judging from how much power he was pouring into his engines, she was pretty close to his payload limit.

She'll swear it's water weight.

Nova could do nothing outside of watching and listening, completely bound to the mercies of her pilot and the weather. For the second time, control over her final destination was taken away and left as a surprise. Sometimes surprises were a good thing though.

Five feet turned to ten. Ten to thirty. Thirty-five to sixty until the tallest conifers were cleared and the tiltrotor was as airborne as the firefighters could manage. Oh how nice it felt to be up here again! A viciously gleeful smile plastered itself to Nova's face, refusing to back down no matter how much the cargo netting rubbed at her cheeks. If only she were well and re-licenced. A lap or two around the park grounds would do her body good.

 _A/N; Much shorter chapter this time around._


	4. Nothing to Lose

Yukon flew slowly; he couldn't have flown any faster if he wanted to. Being built to carry heavy loads was the tradeoff for speed and agility. If someone wanted speed, they needed a Huey if anything. Besides, she wasn't impossibly heavy. Still, he'd probably get a lot of hurtin' the next morning. Maybe he was just out of shape...or getting old.

"How are you holding up down there?"

"AWESOME!"

Nova was enjoying herself ...flipping tank and all. The running theory stipulated that aircraft in general rarely got motion sickness, but it could happen. And it happened more often in those that weren't sedated or out cold from painful injuries. For her, it was the lack of being able to influence her movements for extended periods of time. The view, however, was one to distract an upset tank. Monuments of wind-carved limestone towered above a vast sea of emerald green. Dotted throughout were isolated lakes and a plume or two of erupting geysers. Even with a drought looming, the landscape was simply breathtaking.

"That's good to hear!" The Chinook yelled down, his massive rotors working diligently. He mostly ignored the landscape, only looking around to avoid obstacles, just wanting to get the lift over with. He could feel the strain of the Osprey's weight, but opted to ignore it. It would hurt the next morning, but a sore rotor assembly was just a minor annoyance. He could deal with that.

"Let me know if you start gettin' sick."

Well what was worse? Purging her tanks in the midst of an audience (charming to boot), or being the reason they both went down in flames? To her, at least, the former was looking a LOT less embarrassing.

"Sir? If it's no added trouble, I can manage a taxi ...otherwise ..what's left in my tanks is just water.." Nova offered, inviting another option that could save both their afts. All the tandem chopper needed was a quick breather, and if he was as prideful as Apollo depicted his kind to be, no one would have to know about their little secret.

Regardless if he accepted her reasoning or not, something twisting inside didn't feel like it was going to wait for an answer.

The massive helicopter just huffed, glancing down at his "cargo". Stopping now meant he'd probably never have the strength to lift her again for the rest of the trip. Might as well continue on, they were closer now than before anyway.

"No worries miss, I can take you the rest of the way. But I can slow down a little if that would make the sickness any better." The massive Chinook offered as he followed the bend of the valley. The final half mile. "The faster we get you to a mechanic the better."

She knew it.

Dare she open her mouth to say she'd be empty by then? Not the way her reflexes were behaving at the moment. The other edge regarding this sword, however, whether or not the tiltrotor would be caught mid-vomit. Considering the ache that rested heavily deep in her belly, neither mattered.

At all.

Making the mistake of believing a cough to be JUST that, Nova's first wave came almost as a sneeze. What followed sure wasn't mistaken for anything short of her version of a retardant drop. Less glamorous, but water is water.

"..Sorry.."

Yukon knew the feeling of too much water in the tanks. Especially after having crashed while taking a pallet of medical gear to a US Navy Aircraft Carrier. There was nothing more miserable than being lifted, swinging in the air while water sloshed around in his tanks.

Not to mention vomiting on the deck of an aircraft carrier...

"No worries. We're almost there."

Nova's mood perked a bit upon hearing their proximity to Piston Peak's air base. This chapter of her nightmare was finally coming to a close, and preparations could begin on the next. Bitter-sweet, but a relieved smile found its way onto her face.

She'd survived.

"Thank you so much ...Mr. ...?" she paused, inviting the Chinook to reply with the name she never caught (or was too distracted to remember). She owed him a fly-about as soon as she had become well again, suddenly left to wonder how far this 'mechanic' was willing to go regarding a few … modifications.

"Just call me Yukon, miss," he answered calmly, continuing ever onwards. "And don't worry about it, I couldn't have left you out there."

He sailed over the treetops and hovered over the helipad of the Piston Peak Air Attack Base. He slowly began to lower her closer to the ground, which was hard, even painful considering the excessive control necessary for such a decline. He had to make sure she didn't fall and damage her more; something he did not want to do.

An agonizing hiss escaped the V-22 as the full extent of her weight settled back onto her tires, each emitting grinding clicks or groans that told of parts adjusting in ways that weren't normal. She'd forgotten how painful it was to stand, never mind her wing mechanism, all of which was beginning to ache. Instead of a mechanic in town, team air attack brought her here for a reason. The only visible pitty (minus the young lady, Patch, in the tower) did what he does best and watched her movements ..carefully.

The Osprey could tell from how thick he smelled of grease that he was the best of the best out here; a real MAcGyver of his craft and master of duct tape. With laser-like precision, the purple tug moved around her fuselage, taking stock of her damages, what he'd need to do to fix it, and what he'd have on hand to complete the task. Ron did the same dance whenever a chopper decided to play coy with an illness; claiming to be "fine".

Bonus points came in treats if one behaved.

Epsilon sat near the edge of the helipad, next to Windlifter and accompanied by Dynamite who, in place of the absent fire chief, positioned herself to co-supervise. In the diplomatic light of high noon, the F-22's gray paint glittered just under a fine film of dust and ash, content to watch the ongoing commotion… for five minutes. "How was the trip?"

"I enjoyed it," Nova replied with a lazy but happy wag of her tail panels. Yukon had really done a wonderful job hauling her 30K+ self well over six miles as the crow flies, so she thought it only be courteous to praise him out front. No need to bring up the embarrassing bits. "Here I thought the landscape was foreboding enough from the ground. The acreage out here is impressive...oh, and Yukon did well too."

A soft but ornery grunt left the lavender forklift. From the tone, she could tell he was hurting for humor but found it best to let it slide this time. Once the massive helio was sure that he was no longer needed, Yukon said his goodbyes and set a course for home. He was sore and the main structural beam in his back was stiff, but he was glad to have gotten her back without incident.

Meanwhile, the blue eyed Raptor flinched as her own wings begin to throb with phantom pain. She shook it off and taxied next to Maru, toting a fresh batch of custom fuel for her new friend, something better than the emergency rations from earlier. A careful mix of some regular civilian fuel with a little bit of her own military grade fuel, would work wonders, but first they needed to get her to Maru's workshop.

"Need help?"

"Since you insiiissst ..." Maru slurred, a wry smile gracing the paneling of his face. "Update me on anything and everything you know about V-22s. I'm gonna need to work in stages here. Landing gear first, then elsewhere and we need to be quick about it. She's been on bad struts for too long. Dynamite! Update the Chief too, he won't wanna miss this party!"

"Alright, I'll be right back," she replied with a decisive nod. Dynamite whirled to search for the AWOL fire chief, heading off as quickly as she could to where she had seen Blade disappear a few minutes earlier.

Even as the tug gave his instructions, Nova felt how he continued moving around her, replacing the various ropes and cords leftover from Yukon's equipment with a tow hook around her nose gear. For museum craft, it was common to undergo a sort of "deep clean" as parts were taken out, examined for quality, cleaned and replaced. Surgery was highly uncommon, but not out of the question.

Ron would have a field day sharing stories with this guy.

"Sir? If it helps, I can go a bit deeper," the Osprey noted, realizing something regarding 'research'. "With me being a prototype, Epsilon may not be able to bring up exactly what you're looking for. Blame the internet. But a museum model can, if allowed to stay awake long enough."

The quick reply caught in Maru's throat, and green eyes shifted to the right. She had him at that one; darn her. "We'll see. Epsilon, make sure stuff's outta the way while I tow her in."

They'd better get some snacks and coffee. It was going to be a long night.

With a satisfied huff, Maru detached the hook from Nova's wheelbase before zooming off to gather jacks and supports. Though it would be best to chain lift her off that landing gear, Christmas only comes once a year so supplies are prioritized. Cinder blocks and bricks worked the same way anyway, so no need to fuss over spilled oil.

"I've got a book on Military aircraft if it will of any use." Epsilon offered as she pushed boxes and carts to the side the best she could. There was enough room in the small hanger to fit even Cabbie's large frame... but that didn't mean that it had enough at that particular moment with all the gear...

The raptor wasn't sure what to tell him, what did she know that Nova didn't? She was a jet engine aircraft, not a tiltrotor. She knew the basics, but not much more than that. But she knew someone who did. "I've also got a friend two counties over. He's a medevac chopper, a field medic. He knows a lot fixing any kind of military vehicle... He might be helpful..."

"It's a start. Get the book and we'll have Patch call out to your medic friend later today. I really don't need a diagram on the structure of landing gear...but taking into account that she's a new model on base, I'm not taking chances," the tug explained slowly. "This needs to be done right to work at all. And when I get to the little stuff, it's gotta go back better than when she was born. Feel me?"

Meanwhile, the patient in question discovered and gleefully consumed the generous ration of fuel set before her, doing her best to avoid unnecessary input. Besides, her focus was needed in making sure she didn't eat too fast. An encode performance of her pretend firefighting skills would be severely frowned upon in the confines of the medical bay.

Epsilon nodded in agreement taxing out of in the hanger and towards her own little "cabin". She pushed the doors open with her nose and taxiied into the middle of the unnaturally clean room, where she began rummaging through stash of literature, tossing books on her bed if they weren't useful. So much for a neat living space...

"Let's see..." She muttered. "Roadside Geology of Alaska? Nope... Blackhawk Down? No... definitely not... The Snowflake Rebellion? No no...Volcano Cowboys? Really?! Ahhh!" Finally, a large book housed at the very top of the bookshelf made its way back to earth. Most of the books had been there for years, though she had brought some of her own with her. "United States Military Aircraft of the 21st century."

Once had the book she opted to neglect the books on bed, and headed back over to Maru's hanger. "I got the book... Nova? Let me know if want anymore fuel. You need to get your strength back."

Barely batting an eyelash, the V-22 nodded in acknowledgment but kept the siphon gripped securely in her mouth. A gentle shove told her how much fuel was left, and that she was keeping a steady pace. In fact, she could afford to slow down even more, timing the sips a little further apart. Such a meticulous task kept her locked in her own world for now.

Which was good, because at this point she had no wheels.

"Thank you," Maru grinned as he gestured to his work table as the raptor set the large, hardcover book down on the only spot large enough, or clear enough to house such a thing. Nova's nose gear could be used along with the book as aids while repairing the two busted rear wheelbases. In theory.

"When do you want me to call him?"

"Give it till sundown today before calling. We gotta let Chief know why we're catching up with friends so early in the season. For now, be ready to keep her occupied when she finishes that can-"

"SHE'S HERE!"

Of course, the adoring fans have found "the new kid".

The gray raptor turned back and settled down just in time to hear Avalanche shout, startling her enough to earn a jump and loud, annoyed snort.

"I think that they'll keep her plenty busy," She said. "But I'll make sure they don't annoy her to death."

Quickly responding to the dozer's call, all minus Dynamite filed in around the medic bay, filled to their canopies with greetings and questions for the Osprey. But where Epsilon's audio warnings failed, Maru's glare of disdain held strong enough to impress upon the Smokejumpers that THIS space was NO place for shenanigans.

"Annoy her? Hpmh." The tug's eyes rolled sarcastically before he finally zoned in on the ins and outs of V-22 landing gear. Hopefully, hopefully they'd all keep out of his way and focus their energy more on the "legless" aircraft.

Of course, this whole physical conversation did not go unnoticed. Thankfully, Nova knew a few tricks to signal when she was finished talking. It worked well enough with over-zealous tour groups, and the jumpers seemed to behave like four in particular ...all rolled into one. But there was an added flare to the mixed crew of heavy lifters that she couldn't help but smile at. Yes, even Avalanche's yelling.

For the first time since her arrival, the Osprey relinquished her can of fuel to catch up with them all.


	5. Don't Believe Everything

Epsilon watched the smaller firefighters, stretching her neck to flex her long central beam adjusting her landing gear, moving each of her ailerons before finally settling down close by the back wall, well out of Maru and the Ground-pounders' way. Sometime during the heat of the 'convention', Dynamite rolled back into the perimeter of the medic bay, but carving a path closest to her fellow crewmates before parking. "Didn't cause too much trouble, did you?"

A quick glance between them meant Drip had drawn the short straw. "We didn't plan that far ahead..."

"We made plans?"

"PLANS MADE!"

"Depending on how long Nova's hanging around, but she seems open to ideas," Pinecone finished, rounding out the worst of the boys ideas.

"I imagine she will not be staying long," noted the squad captain, subtly reminding the team to dial down the expectations. They were here to work, not play…. too much. Movement near the hangar door signaled the sudden arrival of the fire chief, making his presence very clear without a sound, taxiing past the smokejumpers like a General before his soldiers. He turned to Nova, giving her a once over.

At first, the tiltrotor wasn't overly unnerved by the steely ice blue gaze, again building off earlier scrutiny from her past family. As the Augusta continued his sweep, however, the whole hanger seemed to go silent, down to the gentle clink of tools and parts on the old spruce tabletop workbench where Maru tinkered on. The littlest things; the way he carried himself, how others behaved in his presence, not out of fear but devout respect, … Chrysler it was annoying in more good ways than bad.

Hmm, must be an authority thing.

Slowly, her own expression switched from eager expectation to reserved apprehension. Reasoning took a harsh grip on her emotions and threw them into the jail of no hope...with all the others. Nova's peripheral hearing could pick up on Maru's sit-rep, even noting a few words as the tug relayed his findings, but neither she or Chief Ranger were backing down from this staring contest.

Nope.

The Chief continued reading even the slightest change in body language. Reservations pertaining to any outbursts this V-22 could muster had to be withheld until well after the "hour of trauma". Some victims, did better than others, but all situations had to be handled with mercy. An extremely tough thing to do sometimes. "How are you feeling?"

Hazel eyes flickered just enough to betray surprise. Why was she so intent on challenging him?

"Very well sir," Nova answered, managing to keep her tone drenched with pleasantries. It took her a minute to recognize an odd twinge deep in her central systems; one that goes by the title 'prove it'. A couple of her Sikorsky "parents" back home had the same tough love about them that was hard to swallow at first. However, all was fair in cutting to the chase.

"For now you are, but I haven't gotten to that auto-rotation system in your wings yet," piped Maru over a shoulder light, having finished piecing together one wheelbase and already oiling up the other.

Oh yeah, that was gonna take awhile. So much of a while that the Jumpers were already beginning to slide bets among themselves, estimating exactly how long she'd be staying. Heck, even she didn't know.

"TMST has contacted me... wanting a statement of what happened. Same goes for the Police, they want to know more about your friend's accident." he said, heaving a muted sigh while keeping a professional tone. The story had yet to be released to the media, aside from what he and police could tell them; that she'd been located and was still alive. "Is there anyone you would like me to contact… or who should know about your condition?"

Of course ...

Now, her ability to keep it together would be put to the test, one of the worst in her short .. what was it...27 years? The poor semi truck had made fast friends with the aircraft in the first 12 hours, all through general chit-chat, before that devolved into joke telling, singing, and the swapping of life experiences. Two days in, and the pilot cars that guided them had all but had enough. Come to think of it, where were they that night? Phil had never driven through the mountains (that she knew of) in the dark of a new moon, much less in a lightning storm. Though it irritated her slightly that she had to be the first to break the air boss's gaze, Nova needed to jumpstart her memory and figure out what happened ... and why.

Even if she was locked inside a trailer the whole time.

"For the police and TMST, have them run Phil's licence and permit numbers," the Osprey recounted, wearing a scowl sour enough to make battery acid taste sweet. "There were supposed to be pilot cars with us the night of that lightning storm. My vision was hindered due to being housed in the trailer, but it felt like he'd over-corrected his course ...for something." She paused for a moment, long enough to swallow the lump in her throat, "As for who to contact ... I wish I could say. Ron would be the first to call ...but he, along with all of us, was forced to relocate on short notice ..."

Slag.

As her vision fogged up, the anger that sat on standby uncoiled like a snake too full of venom ...and starving. For a moment, she let it fester, echoing its rage in a soft hiss of her own as she imagined anything that would justify her attack against the corporation that bought out her and her family's original property. Whose frayed-brained idea was that!?

Returning her attention to Chief Ranger once again, Nova finished her account, "Your other option ...requires a sweep of all aircraft museums within 200 miles of here. Again, those guide cars would know of the exact address ...unfortunately ..I was not held privy to such information."

The more she thought about it, the more it felt like _she_ was responsible for Phil's crash. Across the hanger, the blue eyed stealth fighter sat up, not liking the sound of these guide cars either. Epsilon didn't like what she was hearing. Pilot cars disappearing before a fatal crash? Weren't they meant to help during most dangerous part of the trip? That wasn't right, but it wasn't _really_ a crime, still, she could tell that it had made a considerable impact. Her father had been renowned for his sixth sense in detecting dangers before anyone else, and she could only hope she had inherited a small fraction of his amazing ability. Then again, if she had, she wouldn't have ended up on the side of that mountain.

Pilot cars? "There were none present when emergency personnel arrived," Blade mused, noting the tiltrotor's demeanor had shifted as quickly as updrafts above a raging fire. A bit of a temper this one, yet almost morally justified. After all, it wasn't too long ago that a select few of their own had hopes dashed under the guise of those 'in charge'. "Is there any way you'd know of to reach this .. Ron person? Phone number, email, family or friends?"

The tiltrotor shuddered as if touched by a leaf, shifting her fuselage off its makeshift foundation by two inches. The viper was screaming obscenities.

Livid eyes shot past the air boss and back to three days ago, before the incident. Nova's mind raced to remember even a passing glance of those accursed licence plates, but her waterlogged memory core only recounted the dressed faces of "official" pilot cars, and all she wanted to do was destroy them.

" _Easy young one, you've only begun the puzzle and have not seen the whole picture…"_

Of course. Knowing the grand scheme of things would help target her energies where they're needed most; discovering who's really in charge of all this. Then again, it really could be a ladder of coincidental incidents that so happen to fit together. It better be, for if it wasn't and any of her fellow helos suffered the same "fate"...

"I ...do not... Chief," bit the Osprey, eyes dilated to nearly twice normal size again. "It is unknown whether the American Helicopter Museum website is still online, which would have a number to call. Even so, it's not his personal contact information, and I am unsure how willing the German government is regarding a search on one of their former citizens. Waldmann ...excuse me."

To that, Blade frowned slightly, his tail and main rotors shifting just a hair.

"While I am not about to get tangled up in international business, I will see what I can do. Won't be long until a few deputies from the Piston County Sheriff's Office come in for an official interview, just a heads up. Meanwhile, I'll have Patch check on the website," he said, before turning just enough to excuse himself from the hangar. Though rather surprised at the tidbit of information, only so much could be pried out of the memory core of a survivor. Details were easily swamped with emotions, no matter how hard one tried to smother them. He'd been there before.

"I apologize ..for being less help than anticipated..."

It was over now. Until she was repaired, the Nova could do next to nothing in aiding the search. Was there anything, anything at all that she could remember that would narrow the field a bit more? Hardly. Hours upon hours were lost within those four trailer walls which were now regarded as shrapnel from an accident. Maybe things would clear up as she regained her senses.

It HAD been only half a day since her rescue after all.

"It's better than a babbling mess of nonsense," offered the mechanic, casually eyeing Epsilon in particular reference as he brought back two of the three wheelbases necessary for landing. Although she did indeed move an inch to the left of her original setting, Maru shrugged off the imbalance and deemed it less of a cause for alarm. With one wheelbase set back by Nova's port side, he began working to re-attach her nose gear, bringing up a point all the while. "I dunno where this one's gonna end, but it sounds like one heck of a roller coaster ride. Something a few 'good friends' should hear about sooner than later."

The tug's tone intrigued all that were present. Between he and the Chief, connections in higher places may very well be able to push past whatever roadblocks necessary to get to the good bits of this case. What a can of worms she's found, eh? Just as quickly as anger tried to make its presence felt, hope flared up to replace it, even if it could not hide a bloodthirsty grin that hovered just behind the thankful face.

"It shall be considered. In the meantime, I'll be in my office," the Agusta announced, exiting the mechanic's hanger after a polite goodbye nod while ordering the smokejumpers out with him. To crowd out any aircraft when one was not in the best of moods only brewed trouble. Worse yet, V-22s were a blank slate to him and most everyone on base. Well, maybe Cabbie would know a few things, but such casual questioning would have to wait. There was paperwork to fill out before TMST agents arrived, and new parts to put on order. It was a wonder if he put out more envelopes than actual fires some days.

Still, being chief had its perks.

"Copy that, Blade," answered the tug while keeping his rhythm throughout attaching the second piece of Nova's landing gear. In the span of thirty minutes, he too was up to headlights in angry aircraft, even if it wasn't them she was upset with. Part of the joys of his job was working so closely with the larger ones.

At least Epsilon was close enough to take the worst hits first.

"What happened out there?" Epsilon finally asked.

The Osprey smiled grimly at the F-22's offer to help. So typical of fixed-wings it was almost annoying. Heaven forbid they stop asking though. "I need to get patched up and look at the scene myself," Nova answered finally. "All this ...buying of property and relocating us on so short of notice ... AND not tell us where we're going? Really? Maybe I'm still post-trauma, but Phil's dead because of some higher-up. And no one gives two clicks of-!"

"Easy..." Maru deadpanned, cutting a warning glance in the direction of the tiltrotor's face. He only continued when the sweet sounds of grinding teeth signaled that the craft had settled again, or at least her body had. Beggars can't be choosers.

"I just don't like it. It doesn't make sense to have a facility that's been up and running for decades to suddenly shut down over a weekend," Nova sighed, finally releasing her choke-hold on the issue. She couldn't dig any deeper without wheels, and she wouldn't have wheels until she calmed down. Darn those priorities.

Epsilon nodded quietly."I can take you there as soon as Maru releases you, if you'd like me to. I can understand why you're suspicious..." She said, treading lightly to avoid making the Osprey any more agitated than she already was. She did not want to call Cabbie in to restrain an angry tiltrotor.

An idea came to the F-22, suddenly pulling her away from the patient and bidding her to rummage through a box that she's set in Maru's hanger to be restocked. From there, she produced an emergency blanket, unfolded it, and slung it over the osprey's back and tail. It would be out of Maru's way for a little while, until he was done with landing gear. Nova continued her simmer, calming even after the fighter jet's promise to escort her to the crash site. The extra step taken to cover her with the emergency blanket, however, darn near broke her. Only now did she feel the full extent of stress endured over the past couple of days, and to teeter on the threshold of relief once again was almost unbelievable. She'll cry later though. No family of rotorcraft raised a cry-proppie.

"Thank you, Epsilon ... all of you. I owe you a lot.."

"Well, now that you mention it," sneered Maru, a dangerous gleam in the seasoned mechanic's eye. "If you're buying, the crew and I know of a couple places that ah, ... could cover a few expenses."

Aside from a native parable from Windlifter, trouble conjured by Drip, or Avalanche attempting to give a speech on video game ethics, only Maru could 180 a conversation with enough flare to leave one believing in magic. But leprechauns weren't purple, so he had to settle with ninja.

It worked well enough to earn a chuckle from the Osprey at least. It's been awhile since she'd smiled over genuine humor. The gray F-22 giggled as well, rolling her eyes and feeling a little more at ease now that Maru's humorous nature was once again rearing it's head. "Pick your poison, sir. I'm takin' orders for pick-up while Epsilon and I are out."

"Poison for sure," she agreed with a laugh, never being one for drinking, outside a sip once or twice. "Though, Maru... You're gonna be the one to explain to Chief how contraband ended up on base. I'm not taking flack for your unquenchable thirst."

Another shadow blanketed the interior space as Cabbie pulled up next to the hanger, carrying a big box in his even larger jaws. He made sure to keep his wings clear of the building's roof and walls, before setting the box down by the hangar door. What the box contained was some building supplies and, of course, ten rolls of duct tape. "Maru," he called, before nodding to Epsilon and Nova in greeting.

Giving Cabbie a silent greeting, Maru kept the gist of his attention on the two aircraft in his hanger. "Even if I said you _just so happened_ to pick up the wrong kind in an emergency fuel run?" dealt the tug, using his verbal slight of hand to catch the fixed wing in a royal flush as he cruised towards the waiting supply box. Blame his background, for a tough life on the streets demanded each citizen to be sharper than tacks, brighter than stage lights, clever and cunning with capital 'C's. A lot of that talent fit too well into his role as base mechanic, so he didn't fix what wasn't broke. "By the way, Cabbie. The civilian's offering services of gratitude...get your licks in while ya can."

If Maru was going down with the ship, everyone was going with him.

Epsilon grinned. "I could tell him that you were the criminal mastermind." She was sharp of mind, but not sharp of words. At least not friendly banter. She did have some wicked insults though, as creative as they were. Not to mention her fluent cursing in German she's picked up from a high school pal.

Cabbie made sound like a half scoff and soft chuff as he gave the tug an amused glance, "Who says I want a part in this conspiracy?" He allowed his ailerons to somewhat flutter in the slight afternoon breeze as he unloaded the last of the supply pallets from his cargo hold.

"What have I done?" Nova whispered to her future partner in crime. How awkward is it going to be to admit that she's not one for hard shots ...or drinks in general? The last retirement party held back at the museum did serve modest amounts of fine wine-gas, but her only relationship with the substance ended in hull splitting headaches. Why offer to pick up the juice if one didn't partake as well?

She DID have the excuse that her flight license had yet to be renewed, though. Maybe that'll be enough to stall 'em.

Epsilon chuckled, giving her a look of amused sympathy. "You just got in waaaay over your altitude cap." She looked around quickly before moving in closer. "But I've got your tail."

"Tsk tsk ... who said the fuel was for you?" From crossed tines, the tug casually unfolded one and pointed at Nova, causing her to glance around in confusion. She really was comfortably full at the moment, but also highly interested in how Maru planned to answer the fighter jet's argument. "Remember I said this was an _emergency_ run? How much fuel did you chew through before you got back on your landing gear, Epsil? That whole wing mechanism's gotta be stress tested before she heads out as well. I'm only askin' for a buffer so she won't have to pull from our rations before the next visit from the fuel truck."

So he wasn't lying as much as he wasn't telling the whole truth. Such a scenario rarely, if ever, occurred anywhere near the base on account of the honor system. If it did, someone wanted something, but the fabricated necessity was generally harmless.

"The bad news," Maru continued, now focusing on a bigger task way above the tiltrotor's fuselage. "I may have to take off those wings ...just to check for cracks and sliced wiring. There's a reason why you're not able to unfold all the way; and to keep the systems from jamming up on ya in mid air, it's better to rebuild from the inside. Which also means, once she's ready to go again, Cabbie, I'm gonna need you and Dipper to pace her. Epsilon's too fast, otherwise she'd be my first choice."

Well, ...looks like she'll need that drink after all.

"So ..like it or not you're already pre-approved for this theory, Mr. McHale."

Cabbie raised an eyebrow and huffed loudly. "I don't know what the three of you have planned on this fuel run of yours, but I want nothing to do with it. As for the pacing …," a pause as he studied the tiltrotor before glancing back to Maru. "I think I can handle that."

"Hehe, I'll remember that for next movie night, Cabbie." Still wielding his sword of mischief, the mechanic retrieved his box of supplies and quickly sorted through the remaining pallets once the Fairchild was finished unloading. He'd only let Epsilon believe she was going to be responsible for the fuel heist when, in reality, it was to be the Augusta's own undoing.

Shhh…

Epsilon frowned, at a loss on what to say. She shifted her weight and began grinding her teeth as she thought about what to counter with. She was visibly frustrated, her wing flaps and stabilizers twitching. Being a fighter jet she wasn't fond of losing, verbal or physical altercations. She muttered something under her breath, "I'm not picking up fuel, I have no way to carry it. At least ..I can't carry that much in my bombay."

"Suit yourself Epsil. Blade's already been informed of the possibility on account of your own rehab, so all I'll hafta do is remind him, Windy and I will head out to pick it up, and world peace will be achieved," Maru explained, doing so as comfortably as if he were talking about tomorrow's weather. Whether he decided to follow through on this elaborate scheme (using his own gambling winnings on the contraband) or not, remained to be seen. But this was Maru; it's bound to happen sooner than later. "It'll be a day or two depending on how much trouble that system's gonna be, so that'll give ya some time to reconsider. Feel better?"

Epsilon began muttering again, flattening her ailerons like a wolf would it's ears. She wasn't sure what he was planning, and she DID NOT like it at all. She gave him a glare, trying to come up with something to say; better than giving him a nip. Most fighters jets nipped, or swatted each other with their wings as a friendly sign of annoyance or frustration. But she was too big and too strong to avoid hurting him, so she opted to growl softly and bare her teeth. She hated not being able to formulate a comeback. Arguing with him was like being arrested: everything said can and will be used against you.

Cabbie, deciding he was finished with this tom-foolery, emitted a disapproving cuff before turning out to the taxiway, migrating towards his hanger. There were a few more important matters floating about that he had to tend to.

For the love of Chrysler...

Nova could only spectate as the cowboy mechanic trailed his ropes between the two fixed-wings, starting and ending debates almost within the same sentence. It showed his age a bit, and reminded her of Talaria's own splotchy halo. Said Rotorway not only had size on her side, but a sharp eye and near photographic memory. Hide and seek could either be a lifesaver or heck on earth depending on how valuable the item was. It didn't take a lot of guessing to figure out why "Keys" liked her.

It wasn't funny, but biting her lip to keep from laughing wasn't helping either. Ah, home away from home.

"Quick question Maru," pipped the V-22, finally deciding to interrupt the topic with another noticeable point. "Since you want me to pace out once my wings are back on, do you think that'll cover re-application for my expired license?"

Well slag it all.

For a moment, a hard scowl graced the purple tug's face, half between 'you're kidding' and thinking of a plan. Why he let himself believe the tiltrotor was getting chauffeured for the sake of glam was anyone's guess, but he was not about to admit to that oversight. "It could; but Chief'll be more than pleased to know of an aircraft that's not even legal to fly. Best we get that out of the way now."

The tone wasn't one to convey happy thoughts, however, and further hopes quickly fizzled as Maru left the medic bay to deliver the message.


	6. The Greater Good

"When was the last time you've flown?"

"Last I've seriously flown from point A to B was almost 20 years ago...but really, everyone from the museum has been grounded for a while," admitted the Osprey, her tongue already bitter from the suffocating fact as she stared at the concrete beneath her. "Worst thing is I had the shortest sit-time, and still failed preliminaries. Pretty bad trade-off."

Of course, if the weather was clear, manager forklift Ron would grace a few helos with their original blades and send them off, namely those that were close to causing an uprising. By then, any who flew had several thousand acres to cut the breeze on, far away from anything residential or commercial, and most did well enough by memory. The only rule was to return or call for assistance the second something went/felt wrong. Another reason why monthly deep cleanings were necessary.

Despite the trouble she was causing, the Osprey couldn't help but feel ...a bit at home with the Piston Peak crew. Of course, the drive to attach herself to anything and anyone that displayed a measure of kindness played into her chemical instability. Every decision was a gamble, as were emotional investments. She wasn't afraid of being alone, she was just unnerved about being _left_ alone.

By this time, Epsilon had turned to digging through another box tucked further behind the haphazardly stored containers of tools and parts. From here, she pulled out the familiar game of Battleship, complete with a gleaming picture of some non-existent warship flashing a wicked grin and showing off his massive maw. The more F-22 thought about it, the more it reminded her of the tiltrotor's own gleaming chompers. Geesh, not a great image. "Wanna play?" She asked.

"Oooh my goodness Battleship," chimed Nova, tail panels swaying happily as she recognized a game that almost divided each chopper against the other for days at a time back home. It was almost as bad as chess, but still just as fun. "Yes please, but I'll admit I've gotten rusty on the rules."

How well she could play into that lie had yet to be determined.

The blue eyed stealth fighter grinned, "I'll help ya, if you need it." She dipped her head down and lifted the box up in her powerful jaws, carrying the board game over. She set it down and flipped the lid of with her nose and began unpacking it, hoping that it contained all of the parts. She set each little gray box out, pushing one over.

"I haven't played this game for some time myself, but I think I still remember how to play." The raptor said with a stretch, taking her time to make sure she had each of the pieces.

The Osprey's tail panels continued to wag, visibly excited about a friendly one-on-one. Funny, none of the other rotorcraft back home twirled their tail props when happy or excited. Then again, no one really asked why she was the only one to do so either. Slowly, the board game took shape before Nova's hazel eyes, those of which paid rapt attention to each detailed game piece. Between her closest friends, it was usually Apollo that would sprout the glorified minesweeper from a favorite shelf in the old Piasecki's 'office'. Anyone who wasn't schooled in the techniques would get a crash course against their will. Anyone that did, only thought they knew the rulebook.

"Good. Means we're on a pretty even playing field," smiled the tiltrotor, adjusting herself as best as the blocks would allow her to reach. She wanted to be as comfortable as possible, for hours of strategy and planning lay before her, depending on the type of game Epsilon wished to play. "Is this one of your favorites?"

Epsilon nodded warmly, smiling and sorting her small white and red pieces in their places. She seemed nostalgic as gazed at the small, gray, plastic ships, rolling them in her tires. They were surprisingly detailed, as Epsilon herself had confiscated the game one afternoon to add her own marks of craftsmanship. What was a battleship without it's gleaming turrets? Epsilon sighed quietly and set them in their places on board before closing her eyes, memories coming back like a title wave. "I love this game. My father and I played this so many times... I could play it in my sleep when I was little."

Careful not to drool too much on the board, the tiltrotor mirrored Epsilon's placements and arranged her own pieces via mouth accordingly. "I've doubted your capabilities then. Remind me not to do that often."

Nova smiled upon imagining a younger Epsilon mumbling in her sleep as she dream-argued with her sire. Even as the fighter continued setting up, an air of longing settled on the fixed-wing's face. Something interrupted the regularity between then and now, and the V-22 felt a theory sit heavy in her belly regarding such. Immediately, her two "halves" disputed the matter; the plane side wishing to ask Epsilon what happened and talk it out. The helo side sternly biting back with the fact that the jet's life was none of her business to nose through. Both would be dissatisfied before the day was over, and continue their disagreements long into the night. For now though, she left her statement where it lay and waited for further instructions. When the time was right, an explanation would surface.

Epsilon shook her head, noticing she'd blanked out while staring at her board. "It's a game of luck really..," she said with a smile. "You've got a good chance."

"Your confidence is invaluable. I'll try to not let you down," Nova said softly, still reading into the Raptor's expressions even as she finished setting up. She wasn't just an optimistic predator regarding food, but information as well. Besides, the F-22 did a lot to ease the discomfort of her own ordeal. Why couldn't she return the favor?

Epsilon laughed softly as she finished her board. The small, unique wing-painted faces made it seem as if the ships were alive, there on the open ocean, ready for their Admiral to give them the next command to attack. "You ready?"

There's the Epsilon she knew. "Very ready," Nova grinned, adjusting herself one more time on her blocks. She hoped her gamer side would keep to chill levels and allow Maru to finish re-attaching her landing gear before tackling her wings. The idea of removing them felt exciting and nerve-wracking, only because (to her knowledge) such a procedure had never been done before.

Cool.

* * *

Meanwhile, Chief Ranger was up to his rotors in paperwork, reporting on the fire, tallying up the amount of retardant used, damages, expenses, and their finding of the wounded tiltrotor. He was getting a painful pounding in his metal skull, and work was becoming a struggle. Bad enough without the constant bug-like buzzing of his aging desk lamp.

The crimson Augusta closed his eyes against studying page after page of small print, using his tongue to roll the black ink pen laterally between his teeth as if peeling the skin from an orange. He needed to get it done by the weekend. Yet, for some reason, Blade was faltering in the focus department today..

Speaking of oranges, one would be very much welcomed at that moment.

Even from the main hanger, the menacing towers of leaflets could be seen. Knowing the air boss, Maru took a moment to duck into the galley and grab something to eat, already prepared to chastise for lack of proper intake while "overly focused". Food would also serve as a platform of distraction when the time came to inform of the tiltrotor's license issue. If it weren't the beginning of a potentially disastrous fire season, re-training an aircraft would be a mild irritation. Because it was, however, options would need to be considered.

"Look on the bright side, it's not as tall as when you first became Chief," joked the tug as he peered around the hangar doorway, food and coffee at the ready. His suspicions were confirmed upon finding Blade halfway to raising the white flag, sprawled over a chunk of the papers needing to be filed in a few days. The view got better even as he allowed himself inside to place the tray on a nearby light table. "I'd ask if you've eaten, but I already know the answer."

Maru may have the Augusta seasoned by a couple years, but there were some days that the roles felt reversed. On old friends, it was easy to tell which days were which.

Blade huffed slightly at the verbal flashback. There'd been so much paper in those days, literal castle walls formed around his desk. High enough that getting his attention included catapulting grapes over the fortress barriers as a bribe. The red Agustawestland looked up from his paperwork, tail rotors twitching as shifted his weight onto his rear landing gear. He pulled his nose away from the desk.

Then the smell the food hit him.

Tanks close to running on fumes gave an eager rumble while those expansive main rotor blades twitched, sending a quiver down their entire length; a sign that prospect of nourishment had caught the attention of several hundred pounds of hungry helo. Glacier blue eyes closely watched the tug as the food was put in place nearby, impatient tanks growling loud enough that the chopper could have sworn the local Earthquake Monitoring Station was able to pick it up. "Humph." The mechanic bit back a chuckle, pretending that he hadn't heard the dragon-like growl of Blade's innards. What on earth would his mother think of him?

'Don't "humph" me mister! Eat your dinner or no dessert!' Chrysler, she sounded like his own mom.

With a slight eye-roll, the tug pivoted on an axis to gaze up at a nearby bookcase, one that held literature purely for decorative purposes (or canopy bashing if Drip needed it). For years, Chiefs prior collected books here and there to read during the rare summer thunderstorms that passed through when paperwork was all caught up. Lately, action was lacking among the filmy pages and covers.

"Wouldn't happen to have that 'First 1000 Hours' book, would ya?" Maru finally asked, deciding to bring up the topic before Blade dug too far into his meal. No matter which way he put it though, housing an aircraft that couldn't fly just screamed liability.

"I haven't moved it. So unless someone else has, it's still there collecting dust. Why?"

"The tiltrotor's not licensed."

Maru didn't want to leave the air heavy from such a bombshell, but even he could not worm his way past such an obvious conclusion. Nova's worn out paint told of times spent outside for weeks on end. Why would anyone bother putting her away in an enclosed trailer for a haul? What natural elements could they possibly protect her from at that point?

"I figured while I'm working on that auto-rotation system in her wings, she can study up for some more tests. We may not have time to train her so early in the season, but ...it's your call. Once she's finished, Cabbie agreed to give her a quick exercise around base ..which can't be done unless ..."

Finally locating the book, the heavy-duty pitty flicked a fork to a shelf just above Blade's nose. Never let it be said that he wasn't one to be optimistic.

"Why wouldn't she have a license?"

"Epsil said she was from a museum, so, for one, she's likely been grounded long enough for it to expire," Maru shrugged, pausing only long enough to be confident in his logic this time around. "The second I heard 'reapply', I came here. Which also means a goofed test before the move... hence ..the trailer."

Empathetically, the tug understood Blade's growing frustration. Week one was barely over, but a whole season's worth of work lay in heaps throughout the office. Top it off with a civilian that seemed to come disguised as Pandora's Box, and it was just pushing the limits. "Look. If we can get the license cleared, it'll be the last we hear of her. Leave that to me, and don't forget about your Lieutenant."

The larger rotary wing let out a sigh, closing his eyes. "We don't have time for this Maru...And I don't need to drag Windlifter into this either."

Although the Sikorsky may not like paperwork as much as the next guy, he was darn good at filling them out in a pinch.

"Good.. 'cuz Wind and I need to make a fuel run in a day or so. I'm tryin' to keep our guest outta the rations ...like we should've with Epsil," grinned the tug, skillfully doing so without being too eager about it. A quick nod of gratitude landed the book squarely in his forks and had him rolling outside. But halfway over the threshold Maru paused, glancing back at the dejected air boss stuck behind the stacks of fine print.

"Ya know ...we never had time for the stuff we did, Blade. We made time because we could."

With that, the mechanic finally disappeared, heading back to the medic bay under a slightly higher gear. Time wasn't going to be nice to them, so it's best every second is spent working. Blade looked up one last time and made a loud cuffing noise that could have been taken as an agreement or a complaint. He took a sip of the coffee and turned to his papers. Better keep working before the deadlines bit him in the tail.


	7. Against All Odds

Just before the F-22 could call out her first co-ordinates, Maru slipped back inside the hangar doorway, excused for his interruption by his reports from the Chief.

"Good news, I've found something that'll help ya," announced the tug as he placed the retrieved book close to the tiltrotor's muzzle. "Study up on this, ya can be re-tested and re-licensed almost immediately."

Nova's hazel eyes had already diverted from the game, to the mechanic, to the cover of the selection of literature, rather unfamiliar with the title but keen on staying polite. "Woah ...thank you so much! But ...what's the bad news?"

So she was a smart one. "Hehe ... be ready to fly the hour I finish you up."

A stiff ultimatum, but up till this point, nothing the mechanic did gave her any reason to doubt his abilities. Besides, who better to work with tight schedules than an ex-curator? "Deal."

"A8?" Epsilon questioned, though not keen on changing the subject right away. "I still have a book on civilian flight regulations... and copy for stealth aircraft, to keep us from scaring the bejesus out of civilian aircraft when we suddenly show up out of nowhere."

"Tutor yes please!" the tiltrotor yipped, cutting off Maru who seemed to have an objection. Still, the way things were going, Blade was on the fence about having her here. Best she test quickly and continue on her way. While the girls played, the tug resumed his work on the landing gear before finally planning a way to attack that auto-rotation system.

He hoped they could find that museum she's supposed to be at though.

"Um, that's a miss by the way," Nova answered, finding that the fine soot and dirt caked onto the fighter jet's fuselage from working in the field deterred her usual tricks. Some poker players were nasty enough to check the hands of others by glancing at the reflections provided by shiny paint and shades. It worked with a lot of other hush-hush strategy games, Battleship included. Slowly, though, tactics would need to be changed and her brain would actually have to be used this time. Darn it. "D2?"

Epsilon shook her head, "Miss." She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, Where would she put a ship? She decided she didn't know her well enough to figure that out. "C4?"

The one time her favorite show failed her...

"Hit," Nova groaned, reluctantly pegging the stern of her scout ship. It's okay, just a little bit of damage to start, but underdogs shall rise.

"Cease fire," announced the mechanic again, happily finished with attaching the landing gear and moving out of squishing range of the aircraft. "Now that that's over with, I'll need you down so I can work above. Can ya get the jack real quick Epsil? I'll blindfold her if I have to."

"Wow.. such faith," the Osprey grinned, experimenting with her bounds of sarcasm a little.

"Takes one to know one.."

"Where did you put it?" Epsilon prodded, having found herself staring into the cavernous space of equipment that was collected in every space but obvious.

"Not the small one ..." droned the tug, mentally rolling his eyes a bit. "The table jack should be somewhere towards the back. Haven't used it since that time Chief busted his own shocks years ago. By the way, we don't talk about that..."

Automatically, Nova's face contorted in a vain attempt to stifle a laugh. Goodness her core computer was so rude today. "If you insist."

Epsilon pushed past the shelves, accidentally knocking several boxes from their high and mighty perches, unable to escape them in the tight space. Good thing she wore her helmet. She lifted the jack up in her jaws, carrying it back to Maru, accidentally knocking more off. She groaned and set them on the floor instead. "You need to glue these things down or something..."

The mechanic, watching all of this unfold with no ounce of malice, mimicked the fighter jet with no intention of hiding the poor impersonation. As he retrieved the table lift, Maru defended his methodical madness, "Ya think I haven't tried? Maximum occupancy is 'nothing bigger than Cabbie'."

As soon as Nova settled from her minor giggle attack, the jack was adjusted near the center of her belly, lifted her off the blocks, and smoothly lowered her down onto reformed landing gear. Though her port wheelbase was always going to be trouble, everything else felt just as guaranteed. Better than new.

With minor bounce tests complete to satisfaction, the tug brought in a scissor lift to begin work on the tiltrotor's wings, removing the blanket to do so. Hitting stray nerves and fuel lines would be the biggest challenge, but if both patient and doctor stayed calm, the game could continue without much interruption.

But that would be too easy. "Is there anything else you need me to do?"

As the last stack of blocks was put away (where Epsilon couldn't trip on them), the forklift turned to address her, kicking the scissor lift into gear. "Seem's now's as good a time as any to call this "friend" of yours. Just a short chat will be enough. Other than that, you're on standby. Hate to interrupt your game but someone's gonna have an early bedtime."

Knowing who suddenly had a curfew, Nova exaggerated a moan. Even as she did so, the tides of consciousness began to turn, instantly reminding her of the long hours spent awake. Darn it all. At this rate, she'll be out before the sedatives are even administered.

Exactly why she stayed out of politics.

"I'll call him right away," Epsilon nodded, before a quick taxi lead her outside into more open airway, ready to put on her best show and force her family's long time friend to turn away from his gardening and lend the forklift his medical knowledge. Before the two minute mark, the hum of a high powered engine signaled her return. "He'll be here in an hour or so, while I'm out here, should I grab you anything? Some padded rests or a blanket to nap on?"

Maru only nodded in confirmation, more focused on figuring out how to separate Osprey from wing dices. Nova, on the other hand, smiled thankfully and answered for him, even if the drugs were already working to shut her down. "That would be awesome. "Doc Sarcasm" says I'll be out for eight hours, give or take. More than long enough to get the wings off, but ... just to be safe."

"For now it's a light sedative, just to get ya started," the tug corrected, ignoring the jab while switching up pliers to continue picking through the paneling. "The heavier stuff won't come until Epsil's friend touches down."

"Oh yeah ..."

Another eye roll signaled that he was going to stop paying attention to whatever else came from the V-22's mouth for awhile. "Best get those blankets EM. She's working through this stuff fast enough to be on the floor in a minute."

Epsilon nodded and taxid off to retrieve the bedding; quickly making the tiltrotor a "nest" before skittering out of the way. Good thing the fighter jet was fast.

Less than a minute after the bedding was arranged to the F-22's liking, Nova ultimately gave out and lowered herself the final foot and a half to the hangar floor. She even had enough energy and cognitive instinct to 'shimmy', an action induced by a particularly comfortable sleeping area that many if not all rotorcraft NEVER admit to doing. Planes had no problem snuggling into their comfy spot. Still, it's a general secret best observed by few.

"Hmph! Good catch, Epsil," commended the tug, now lowering his platform to the adjusted height. In the back of his mind, a cautionary theory whirred like a loose belt about to snap. If a light anesthetic could become active in the Osprey's system this quickly, it was likely to flush out the same way. Not good if there were any hiccups in the procedure. "One last thing ... cover her eyes while I get the muzzle. Bad enough some of ya can be grumps after a good nap... I'd like to keep both my tines this time."

Epsilon withdrew her attention from the Osprey and to the mass of equipment to locate her least favorite medical tool. She herself had to be muzzled before, after being hit in the head with a tree and almost biting a hole in Cabbie's wing as he tried to remove the massive spruce. The Lockheed was all too familiar that the gist of her reaction to sedatives largely revolved around the realm of predictable, quickly spiraling from loopy as a drunken bear to "Attack Everything That Moves, That You Think Might Move, Has Moved In the Past, Will Move, Or Could Move" mode. Darn those Fighter jet genes.

Said fighter jet, having finally fished out her target, lifted the blindfold up in her jaws and tossed it to Maru. "Got it."

The makeshift nylon contraption was as simple as they come, complete with a mesh cone and some straps that could clip to a sort of 'collar' around the neck. If dealing with helicopters, who generally had a longer snout and shorter body frame, a few modifications could be made to accommodate. Nifty little thing. Combining this with a simple towel duct taped over the eyes left anyone who came in or out of the hangar twice as safe, especially after the drugs wore off. Parking blocks were the last precaution, just in case the tiltrotor did indeed prove crazy and try to follow her audio cues despite being blind.

"Alright, we're set," Maru grinned, pleased with his prep work on the snoozing Osprey. Surely that could have eaten up some time before their guest medic chopper arrived. What was his name again? "When'd your friend say he'd be here?"

"By now? Won't take long, also long as traffic patterns allow... no more than 15 minutes," Epsilon replied, driving to the door and closing her eyes. She concentrated on listening for the sound of helicopter rotors. "He lives in Stonecreek, so it shouldn't be long."

Maru nodded and released the Lockheed to her watch, turning back to the book so as to double check for anything regarding an Osprey's wing structure. He knew this was going to be the toughest part of the nutshell to crack, for everything in the world of genetics and manufacturing was done to ensure the stuff that kept aircraft airborne were difficult to fiddle with. On some models, it took a great amount of force to separate wings from body, especially because it was the same section specifically designed to handle such force on a daily basis.

Still, if anyone could pull this off, it'd be him.

Behind them both, Nova slept on, the first forty-five blissful minutes she's enjoyed in three days. She wasn't a particularly patterned sleeper though, neither light or heavy, but fluctuated between both each night. If it wasn't for the anesthetics, she'd be awakened by every shout, clang and radio call from all around the strange airfield.

However, it wouldn't be external trauma that would awaken this banshee.


	8. Journeyman

Rex William Tanner cuffed as he turned from his vegetable garden towards the long winding path that led back home. He had inherited this large plot of beautiful forest land from his parents after their deaths in combat 15 years ago. Their old house had been renovated, and now here he was, caring for this beautiful old property, green vines and ivy crawling up the walls. It was more of a European themed garden than an a house, comfortably settled right in the middle of the United States.

He set his box of gardening supplies down in his tool shed before taxiing into the house to clean up and grab his bag of medical gear. Rex had been back from his latest deployment only two weeks ago, and had yet to take inventory of his personal gear like he'd planned.

All to be blamed on that assembly ache.

He taxied out to the very modern cement helipad, and fired up. It wouldn't be more than an hour before he arrived, most likely less if time and the weather were on his side.

Miles away, patiently waiting by the door of Maru-Land, Epsilon sat with the head of her fuselage angled the sky, eyes closed and engine all but silent.

Every vehicle, whether aircraft, watercraft or other had a unique rhythm and tone to their engine.

While most lost the ability to pinpoint all but the closest loved ones by their teen years, some aircraft were lucky to retain this trait of memory. And she was one of them. Rex just happened to have been a friend of Epsilon's family just long enough that she could guess, to a fairly accurate degree, if any incoming Blackhawks could be him.

But really; how many Blackhawks could there be in this vicinity anyway? What she wouldn't admit was her jealousy of submarines. Their memory and hearing was the best in the world, able to remember the engine sounds of thousands of individuals. From their kin and enemies to random fishing boats that they'd come acrossed once years ago.

A peculiar black dot on the horizon drew her attention from her mind's wanderings to the present. Look who had finally decided to show his face.

The trees swayed as the helo touched down, sending a cloud of dust and dead grass in all directions. She greeted him with a nod and a smile before beckoning him to the lair of the dragon.

It was impossible to read what he was thinking when he saw the condition of their tiltrotor friend, though. She was sure his response would have involved an annoyed grumble if it had been Epsilon herself napping there with similar damage.

"Hello. You must be Maru," The Blackhawk medic offered in greeting to Maru, giving him a polite nod. "Epsilon has told me much about your skills... and your humor. How is your patient?"

A satisfied chuckle escaped the tug, but darnit all if Epsilon didn't introduce everyone first. Yes, he needed the help, but he didn't throw around that 'better than new' slogan because he could. Decades of long caffeine-drowned nights and a thirst for figuring out the system made the mechanic into the life-saver he was today. Thankfully, Maru wasn't hard-grilled enough to be a snob about it, especially if someone's life was at stake. Just ... a tad protective.

"Pleased to meetchya, and miss Nova's doing good for now," Maru greeted, suddenly cutting brown eyes towards the fighter jet. "Forgive my in-formalities, but I couldn't pry much outta Epsil regarding your status. She doesn't like sharing much outside of "he/she is a friend" ... it seems. Whaddya go by?"

"It runs in her family," he said with a laugh. "My name's Rex Tanner. I'm a PJ with the US Air Force." He said, opening his doors and pulling out a bag of medical bag with a large faded crimson cross on it. The bag was old, Vietnam era, with rough, dark green fabric that further contributed to the age.

"An honor to have ya drop by Dr. Tanner," nodded the tug, tempted to salute but not wanting to make a show of something unnecessary. While the helo went to gather his own assessments of the tiltrotor's injuries, Maru scooted over to check the other sedatives he had lined up for the real deal surgery. Nova wasn't waking up from the mild dosage she had now, but he'd have to be sure to draw the exact amount each time if she tried to.

"Please, just call me Rex," the rotorcraft mentioned, offering a slight smile before taking inventory the damage. Hmm... this was going to be interesting. He had a basic knowledge of what made Ospreys tick. He had to. Unlike his pararescue crew, he was trained in handling wounded aircraft. The grounders could be left to the crew.

He would have to take a closer look at the damage. "What happened here?" He questioned. At least this little damage was just routine for him. "And what did you use to tranquilize her? I don't want it to wear off."

"Too bad you missed the parts where she was awake and talking," Maru began, pausing just long enough to allow his memory to catch up. "I've given her a light sedative just to get her to sleep, Valium, since she's been up for almost 36 hours. Nova, here, was involved in a single-vehicle accident near I-90 two days ago, in which the semi hauling her somehow lost control and permeated the concrete barrier on a bridge over Gearbend River. Damage sustained in the middle of her wings must be from an inverted landing. Epsil said the number she did to her engine out front was from clearing out a spot for a backburn this morning. I've already fixed up her landing gear, which showed cracks and wear in each unit probably from fighting the rapids, which leaves ..."

Climbing back up onto the scissor-lift, the mechanic realigned himself with the Osprey's wings. "This. Judging from the damage sustained, I may have to take off the whole thing just to get to her auto-rotation system... leaving her wingless. But this is where your suggestions come in."

Forget about routine. This was worse than the Blackhawk thought.

"She's lucky to be alive... Last Osprey I saw go down like that barely survived, and he got medical attention immediately. If she's made it this far, she should come out just fine. I'm not a big fan of dodging teeth while trying to complete complex recalibrations... V-22's are rather... difficult to work with when half drugged. Hmm... That's a quite a crack in the main hydraulic system. If slag hits the turbines, I have tranquilizer darts in my medical bag... Ketamine, but I would prefer to avoid using it."

Rex did have to dart a C-5 Galaxy/Antonov AN-124 hybird once… which was NOT FUN. AT ALL. Not even a little bit. Well... maybe a teeny tiny bit; like playing dodge ball with several thousand pounds of angry teeth. Valium, eh?

"You're tellin' me," mumbled the tug. "She's practically a flying gas station with all these fuel tanks. No wonder she was left starved the whole time."

Rex gave a glance to the metal shielding where the Auto-Rotation system was housed. "Wow…," It looked like she'd picked a fight with an Abrams, and barely got away in one piece. "I think our first order of business... we should fix the farthest to reach, nothing here is vital. The bottom paneling needs to be flattened out and repainted or else it might rust. The gears need to be replaced and realigned or else they may snap out of place or worse, shatter with the next jerk of a wing... The cables should be resoldered, the bolts need replacing and some could use a tightening. The hydraulics need to patched, and filled with hydraulic fluids," he said, tilting his head sideways to get a better look. Being a smaller, thinner model he could bend a decent amount sideways using his nose gear and flexible main beam.

One success followed another. So far, Rex's diagnosis sounded better than Maru had thought, and didn't require a complete dismantling of the tiltrotor. Who knew what she'd do with herself without wings and engines? Then again, something told him Nova wouldn't be overly disturbed about such a circumstance.

"I can get that much," grinned the tug, ready with the heavier dose of knockout drugs and anesthetics, eager to do what he does best and get to repairing. "Let's just hope she's able to unfold like I want afterwards."

With the medicine finally administered into the IV drip, both mechanics bid the Osprey a good night, and really got to work.


	9. Writing on the wall

Rex took his time inspecting the entirety of the wing dices, finding a good percent was dented on the outside and missing enough livery to warrant a total repaint. He flipped open the paneling along the upper side of her wing and took a peek inside. It was... in pretty decent shape for someone who'd had a not so pleasant swim in the rapids.

He began by drying and cleaning the the intact cables and wiring, rewiring them out of his way to get at the hydraulics and damaged electronics. The main hydraulics were cracked in this part of the wing. Definitely worth a closer look. Most of the fluids had dripped out of the inch long crack, staining the bottom paneling, it would need to be rinsed and refilled. A high-tech field welder came from a compartment in his first aid chest, allowing him to weld the crack shut, then inject the hydro fluids into it to regain its functional capacity. "I would also suggest checking the suppressor for cracks or debris."

Meanwhile, Maru worked just as fluidly on the other section, tightening bolts, exchanging warped and dented panels, assessing every hydraulic and fuel line he touched, working all the way to the demolished engine nacelle itself. His fears were confirmed upon realizing that the final foot of her transmission interconnect shaft was bent in all kinds of tiny directions, like a misguided straw. The E.A.P.S was smashed, run dry drive system was severely cracked, and her fail-operate conversion system was crumpled to half the size they'd normally be. Funny how the absolute worst damage sustained wasn't earned from the actual fall off the overpass.

"I'll have to take apart the engine," mumbled the tug, already working through fan belts and wires to reach the IR suppressor. And he thought two surgeons was going to make all this easier. "She's beaten this one up worse than I thought."

Rex replied with a soft grunt of acknowledgement, too busy soldering a ripped communications wire back together. With a clean cloth the whole wing was wiped out, opening all the access panels. The auxiliary power unit was intact, but worn down. Several holes were patched in the metal paneling of her wing, and the bolts were replaced. "She could stand to replace her auxiliary power unit."

"Uh, yeah we'll do that," Maru replied, a bit distracted as he continued gutting the powerhouse before him. By the time he could admit it, half of the engine was strewn out all over the palate next to him on the lift, work that was about as regular as a check-up here on base (blame Cabbie). Still, the prompt scheduling never meant the tug had to like doing it. Oh well. "The terrible part about it, Rex ... these smaller bits are gonna hafta be ordered to be replaced. I don't have anything here that'll match or substitute her specs. I'm tempted to leave it empty and take the blades off on this one so she'll remember not to fly."

Not only could the tiltrotor fold up like a rubix cube, but she proved to be just as puzzling. The mechanic may like puzzles, but he actively hated setbacks.

"That might be difficult. Military parts aren't easily available for civilians. I have a few contacts who might be able to send over some replacement parts, but _don't get your hopes up,_ " Rex summarized before turning back to his work on the wing panels.

And he'd thought that Abrams were a mess of wires.

"As long as you hinder the flow of information from the fuselage to the engine, the rotors won't turn," advised the Blackhawk chopper. "A simple disconnected main wire will do the trick. It's less of a hassle and not as painful. As for the parts, I _can_ pull it off, but it could take weeks."

Maru bit his lip in speculation. He was afraid of hearing about further roadblocks while fixing up the Osprey, but the acquisition of parts and necessary equipment was one he dealt with on a near daily basis. The catch here was, as mentioned, her rarity. Something else Blade would enjoy hearing.

"I'm guessing that a specific request for 'prototype' parts is asking too much?" queued the tug, still holding tight to his stipulation to keep close to the rule book on this one. Though he could personally re-craft each item here in the shop, it would take weeks in between the crew's own injuries. She'd be able to move around a bit, but Nova would be stuck here ...at base. With them.

Eugh.

Even as he thought of this, the mechanic followed through on the suggestion to "unnerve" the engine. Perhaps he would have thought to do the same on his own, if he wasn't so focused on getting that tranquilizer dosage correct. Oh slag that was a horrible thought; forgetfulness. It meant he was getting old.

"It's as good a shot as any," Maru sighed while examining each part under the portable UV light. Tedious as it was, he had to be extra careful with engine parts; their durability was a lie sometimes. "I'd hope to have her in the air as soon as we can. She's got license issues that hafta be caught up on."

Good thing Epsil agreed to tutor the poor Osprey while she recovered. Now that she wasn't going to have the time to study like they'd planned, every waking moment was likely going to be invested in learning. Hopefully, most of it will just click and only minor tuning will be needed.

Hopefully.

Deciding that another component of Nova's engine had fared well enough to pass his inspection, the mechanic forklift returned it to its housings. What nearly made him jump out of his paneling was the low growl that rumbled just beneath the lift. Surely she wasn't awake after just, what, three hours? Not now, no way! "Uh ... did you feel that?"

As soon as the tiltrotor stirred, the Blackhawk's main rotor blades slid back in one fluid motion, folding over his tail boom like the feathers of a peacock. Defensive posture activated. "As a matter of fact I did, and it's best we put her back under sedatives quickly. Ospreys are VERY dangerous when agitated."

"Heh! Agitated we've seen. If you can inject 4ccs of one of these into that IV, then we'll be clear of Delirious," agreed the tug, reaching for one of the sedative-loaded syringes prepared earlier and passing it to the Blackhawk. If only the scissor lift had a quick-release of some sort ...well, quicker, suddenly realizing how precarious his spot was so close to Nova's head and engine. Oh boy.

"Not too much," Maru reminded, carefully watching Nova's less-than-labored breathing despite his own dangers. Everyone on base (even Windlifter in his own soft-spoken way) chewed the mechanic at one time or another for putting himself in harm's way for the sake of their lives. What good is he being their mechanic, much less a firefighter's mechanic, if he didn't? Everything about their job spelled danger, and they didn't have to look far to find it. No matter what happened, he loved what he did and had no regrets about it.

This growling, though, he'd much rather be out of the way of that. The Augusta and Sikorski he knew, and he knew what to do to make them snap out of their 'grump'. Epsilon was a bit tougher, but settled as soon as they gave her a quiet place to chill out. With the Osprey, the only leverage he had on her was food. Some good that did him during surgery. Too bad there wasn't a way to jerry-rig a hammock of sorts. Aircraft always calmed down a bit more when suspended.

The Blackhawk released a soft chuff, trying not to be offended by the elder mechanic's reminder. He settled instead for letting the fluids mix with the fuel on it's own terms. All the while, Maru counted the minutes until the drug could take effect. Slag she fought through it though, like a pup that didn't want to go to bed. Hard enough to convince him that they'd need another syringe for awhile.

That's when the systems went haywire.

The Osprey clumsily lurched upwards, almost jumping the parking blocks and hitting the scissor lift. Having had enough close calls for one day, Maru detoured over the edge, landing roughly but well enough to move everything out of the way. Rex, too, leaped backwards, well out of range. Drool oozed from the Osprey's mouth and spread over the blankets, tracing out a shallow arc as Nova teethed for purchase from behind the wire muzzle. Her snarling grew louder as she automatically tried to unfold from her cargo setup despite being so weak, the metal and gears within producing an unearthly raspy-whine as parts slid against each other. It became very apparent, _very_ quickly that there was **very** little either could do at the moment. She was hurting, and _**very**_ angry about it.

The tug shot a glance at the Blackhawk medic, more awestruck than afraid of the spectacle; something that was defying the rules of medicine and physics. If the hazards weren't so thick in the hangar, Maru would find himself laughing at Rex's expressions, but he steeled himself to focus on more serious matters. If he was a betting tug (which he was), this little 'eruption' would have been much worse if they hadn't administered the stronger sedatives when they did. Who would have thought she'd burn through that first dose this soon?

So he had a gut feeling the second wave would kick in ... right about, now.

As quickly as it began, the Osprey's movements slowed until absolute in-animation regained hold of her frame. One final hiss in protest was all that could escape her before the vehement beast succumbed to the will of both the mechanic's alchemy. A two minute tantrum that felt like half an hour of tyranny.

Rex finally let his rotors unfold when the tiltrotor went back under. He'd dealt with a lot of delirious aircraft throughout his deployments, from charging C-5s to being tackled by a half sedated F-35. The worst had been the time he was nearly mauled by a Tornado/Tomcat hybrid. Had to be holed up in his own medical bay for a week with an infected bite in his tail and his main rotors folded up like a flower bud. It had taken a huge dose of sleeping drugs to finally subdue that patient.

Sometimes the Blackhawk chopper wished sedatives could work just a little bit quicker.

 _"Whoa..."_

Of course Drip would be the first to break the following silence. However, the scowl on Maru's face melted away as soon as he turned around. Nearly everyone on base had rushed to the immediate vicinity of his hangar, drawn by the voracious gurgles of a half-drugged aircraft and chomping at the bit to intervene if necessary. Again, if he hadn't decided to poke her when he did, things really, **really** could've gotten worse.

Whoa indeed. Still, just another day at the office.

"Clear. Y'all can relax now," Maru huffed, collected enough to toss his co-workers a trademark grin as they slowly began to taxi away. Slowly. He'd swear they worry too much, but as he rolled back to his strewn scissor lift, he could tell something was off in his axle. Whatever strain he'd created from jumping off the lift from that height will have to wait. At least he'll be in one spot until the procedure was completed.

"You good, Rex?"

A slow nod came before the verbal answer, and that was just the beginning of his self-calming ritual. "Let's get this over with. The less time we take up, the less chance we have of that happening again."

Blowtorch back at the ready, both mechanics resumed working, but this time with a closer eye on the V-22.


End file.
